childhood desk
i trace initials
no longer mine

Life is a scratchy film reel that plays in your head, your mother swanning into the solarium that overlooks the pool; life is her eyeing you from her loveseat perch, on her lap pink crocheted squares and the latest Dick Francis; life is you laughing when she says, Roberta, all kidding aside, you could stand to lose a few pounds maybe eat more salads, and even though you will sell the Florida condo, life is spending an hour looking at its staged photos, zooming in on what your mother calls the solarium and you call the sunroom just to hear her brusque correction; life is the warmth of the sun on your face as you curl up under her afghan no one else wants, while reading Dick Francis for the umpteenth time; life is letting the book fall from your hands as you close your eyes, a scratchy film reel playing in your head, your mother swanning into the sunroom solarium sunroom solarium sunroom.

10 years gone clouds shift a broken stairway

Bio: Roberta Beary