Mother, was the real deal
a boiled-down with dross removed
saint, who always
smelled of Pine Sol and
food fried

she often sighed

she liked crooning Doris Day songs
with clack and clatter of dishes;
she was a diva

to us, she was an angel
without wings, someone who
soothed our scrapes and occasional

we didn’t know how to
ease hers, but I think our tears
helped some.

I often have visions of her sitting at
the kitchen table, leaning on calloused elbows
with hands folded

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