Remnants of a Loved One I smell my mother when I get my hair cut The sickly-sweet scent of hairspray. I smell my mother when I walk by a side street Where the staff takes a smoke break. My eyes catch the shimmer of diamonds Rings and necklaces dangling And her regal presence appears. Never opulent, sleek elegance, dressed in beiges Or black and white. Her long fingers capped by manicured nails Painted a creamed pink to match her lipstick. Her face smoothed with liquid paint Left behind on white silk collars, remnants. Even as she rested in her bed those last weeks, Her make-up and hair held fast—less so As her time came. Her hair fell to her shoulders. Her soft hands held mine. She lay bare curled in innocence. I miss her strength, her tenderness Her laughter when the armor fell away.
Ask me about book clubs, talks, and my new novel, The Underpainting, out in November. I'd love to hear from you. You can find me athttp://www.abberolnick.com.
