My mother was just a show.

My mother was just a show.

I couldn’t call her weak, nor strong.

Just images I sometimes did not recognize

And sometimes I looked away,

Other times, I watched steadily

Seeing which parts to take in and which to discard

But somehow I took them all in

and I jumbled them

And I tossed and turned in bed

Wondering why I couldn’t quite understand what I saw

When I tried to turn her down

She got louder

I’d see black and white fuzzies

Other times

A comedy show

But only the audience is laughing when told

I was the one waiting for my line

Serious faced

I adapted, edited, rearranged the script when I could

I would laugh

I would speak

At times scream because I knew that’s what was demanded of me

Before sulking into a room

Not defeated

Only, ready to restart the show some other day

Thank you. Peace!

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