For all the sons and daughters whose sources have made way for the sun.
She leaves the doors open
to let the light through,
make way for a breeze,
let the house breathe.
It was as if she knew exactly how the wind blew
so she could summon the scent of summer into the rooms.
She draws the curtains to the movements of the sun.
She, daughter of sweet siestas,
sister of Sundays
set to songs of sepia,
immortalized in hums,
merging with the rising
trail of smoke, scent
of finely crafted suppers.
She, lap for my naps,
fingers through my pigtails
and braided birthdays.
Fluffing the ruffles of party skirts,
source of rippling laughter.
The one at the end of an afternoon’s run,
arms outstretched, my destination.
Cure to splinters and scratches,
that touch, tender. Kiss on the forehead,
tuck of the blanket after the lullaby. She
stands by. She, guardian of dreams.
She, lady who flips the flaps
of schoolday lunch bags,
quick with ease, firm
certainty. Like an embrace
after a heartbreak. She knows,
she whispers: It will all be better.
Like dark hallways being lit by the afternoon,
through the windows, the heavens flood in.
Bringer of light, she draws the curtains.
The doors are open. Still.
The wind blows a warm breeze.
The rooms are as she would please.
Light falls, it rests.
Everything is at ease.