It’s strange.
On the photo magnet on the refrigerator,
My mother smiles, holding
A three to four year old child, me.
Although I am female,
I have hair short like a boy’s.
The background is blurry,
But I am convinced the setting is a forested park of some sort.
I have three more photos:
Two are of my parent’s wedding.
My mother is in a flowing white gown,
Looking happy,
While my father looks unusually proper in a suit
And with his hair done.
A showy bouquet is shared between in the two of them.
They are posing in a rose garden.
Vines have crept up the lengths of the elaborate white walls.
I sit backwards on a rocking chair to see.
The third only photograph in my home
Is rather somber.
It is of my mother, alone this time, looking grim.
It is the expression I know so well.
Her long black hair is dark and shiny,
Gold earrings glinting at the sides,
Donning a star-patterned black and blue woolen sweater.
She looks beautiful, but sad.
I neglected to mention a detail.
She is sitting in a Ferrari-like scarlet car,
Not hers of course.
It still has the price tag attached.
She was at a car show, I believe,
Where you could enter into the luxurious models.
My mother doesn’t smile half as much as she should,
Even though she is one of the wisest persons I ever met
And would never back stab you.
Unlike our “relatives” and “close family friends”.
But I think I know the reason why.
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