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The Good Mother For My Inner Child
She whispers: When you pick the first green
apple on the highest branch, bring your
ear to the tree's bark; let it say to you the
way to come down.
She decorates my bedroom with wallpaper
of Raphael's angels. Each bedtime instead
of prayers, we imagine together what good
deeds those angels will do.
She ensures that my marron and white saddle
shoes are always carefully polished and supplied
with new plaid ribbons.
She invents imaginary names for the swirls of
white boiled frosting as she decorates my birth-
day cake covered with flat confetti sprinkles.
She creates a rock garden in a pie tin of round
smooth stones the size of robins' eggs each
gathered from long walks along the river;
each holding a secret, special, story.
We feast on Popsicles of pastel colors whose
nectar is only from exotic Hawaiian fruits.
We drink milk from tiny china teacups.
We look at flowers with a magnifying glass.
She wears clothes to cuddle slobbering babies
and allows the sniffling of dogs.
She bathes me with laughter, tenderness,
kindness, trust, security, gentleness.
My feet go first in the water. She feels the deity
of my special being and feels awe again that there
are ten toes just like that first amazing moment
when we first met.
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