A Mothers' Tear

Inhale.  Orange zest and lemon curls, bouquets sculpt with wild flowers

Geometric ruffling in decorative lace

Devoured by the flavor amidst scripted parsimony,

That leave some so uninspired, yet

As a child I would attend the gala every year,

Chicken cordon bleu, cheese pouring out

Into puddles, infringing upon the green beans,

Baskets filled with fresh baked bread,

A quick slice, to which butter promptly melts

A taste that lemon splashed sparkling water quickly washed away,

Occasionally I’d take notice to the names of guests as they would appear,

On laminated paper, as if anyone could forget who each other were,

I’d Exhale, a simple sigh, as my mother took my tiny hand,

Guiding me away from the feasts and fancy, across the gymnasium floor to our once a year enchanted place, an area more open and clear, where only the two of us would dance and stare,

Still lacquered shiny from the game the night before,

I’d forget about the mud and dirt as that song would play it’s lonesome melody,

And her lips would curl towards the ceiling high, and I’d always wonder why she’d tear

Upon seeing the splendor within my eyes,

But tomorrow the town shall renew once more,

Weekly trips to the fruit stands, riding a bicycle my dad used to own,

Seeing children from the neighborhood, scattered across the grassy groves

Immersed in every type of play imagined, an idea lost with age,

And now, with a moistening of the face, I knew what my mothers’ tears had to say