A poem of remembrance for Mother’s Day
The Orange Tablecloth
The folds in my mother’s orange tablecloth
are still crisp.
I imagine her
long ago
standing at at the ironing board
orange fabric
billowing on either side.
She stands,
her white apron
tied behind her back,
dish towel carelessly
draped
over her shoulder.
Her head bowed,
she sings along
to Madam Butterfly.
Her arm sails
along the orange
river of cloth.
The iron travels
cutting a wake
behind;
back and forth
it sails.
After so many years
she is gone
but here is
the orange
tablecloth;
fabric as fresh
as forty
years ago.
Twenty since
the last dinner party.
Ten since she handed
her daughter a bag
which sat
unopened
until now.
The orange tablecloth
still retains its folds
as if
it was just ironed
yesterday.
To Irma G

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