I feel like our mother when I read in bed,
Early in the morning, stacks of books and letters next to me.
Thoughts written wildly on the backs of bank statements and PG&E envelopes.
Blankets tucked up and around my chin.
Bunches of pillows balancing my head, elbows, hands and book.
I feel like our mother for hours-
Window open next to my bed, fresh air swaying in.
A delectable morning chill sucked in through nostrils.
When I wait like this, allow my day to start like this,
I get a strong desire to lay next to our mother and hear her read a story.
Perhaps Gus and Gerdie, in her morning voice.
I feel like my mother when my thoughts bunch together and loose their logical orange and green threads.
I feel like my mother when my mouth cracks lopsided open- red.
I tell you, I just don’t know.
But you know.
I feel like our mother when I walk, just to walk,
Just to move my feet and mumble to myself about the flowers and shape of the clouds.
Watching houses with potted succulents pass by,
Feel dirt close to concrete under foot.
When I feel beautiful,
When I feel noticed,
When I feel deeply needy and needed-
I feel like our mother.
You say, Andrea, you are not mom.
I say, You’re right, I know.