Soft

When I think of my mother.

Everything seems so soft.

.

Soft–like her voice.

Poetic. Magnetic. Empathetic.

Filling the air with patience–listening.

Parting her rose petal lips

to reveal words dipped in sweetness–

icing sugar–snowing

onto freshly baked zucchini chocolate cake.

A family recipe.

Bruised gourds grated on the

marker-stained counter–

sprinkling the tumbleweed floor.

Her hands–big–over mine–small.

Winking. "Don't tell your sisters.

The zucchini will be our little secret."

Stirring. Sifting. Singing. Sampling.

Her chin resting on the hair she gave me.

Always her student. Still–

"Try the cake.

Danielle made it all by herself."

.

Soft–like her belly.

Stretch marks–

like a road map for all the plans she has for us.

Carving the hope of our future into her skin.

Her stomach–shameless and content.

Enjoying the pleasures

of sweet fudge cake smiles and cold ice cream kisses.

Licking sugar spoons in her lap.

My brain sinking into the pillows on her chest–

looking up at her relentless grin.

She always spoke about looking up.

"How do you know if you are looking at the sky,

or if the sky is looking at you?"

And if she said it it must be true.

.

Soft–like her dress.

One of many.

Ironic patterns–like

a tuxedo cat eating tuxedo cake.

Or pineapples in sunglasses drinking fruit juice.

The fun fabric melting into her form.

Never apologizing

for her beauty–

for her body–

for her age.

Twirling in unison with the freedom

she possesses.

Creating ripples of wind

that reach my shore.

Dancing in her design–her craftsmanship.

She'd laugh, "I always wanted to be a seamstress,

but my mother said I must get a degree."

June this year would announce her retirement.

She could finally be a full-time seamstress.

"That is why you need to write, Danielle."

Holding out the quilt

she made out of her mother's clothing–

taking it off the cat

she is rocking in the cradle.

.

Soft–like her spirit.

Weightless as the scent of raindrops

floating on top of the wind.

Collecting into wisps of magic–

painted cotton candy skies.

"Right there!

It looks like a dog, mom.

Do you see it?"

She sees a dog.

Like the bark behind our

neighbor's picket fence.

And a chimney.

Like the cigarette from

grandpa's lips.

A bottle.

Like the rum

she keeps for baking cake.

A castle with a moat that whispers

tales of princesses wielding swords–slaying dragons.

"I can't see the princess, mom.

And where is the dragon?"

Squinting. Searching. Scouring.

Tying my thoughts in knots until

they form patterns like the braid in my hair.

"Relax your eyes. Make them

soft.

Don't you know, Danielle?

The clouds can turn and twist

into anything you want–

even with your eyes closed."

.

Soft–like the soil.

A stranger grasping a shovel–

grains of recycled smudge

covering years of wasted time.

Black–dresses and forest cake.

Dad crying, “we should have gone to Disney Land

or back to Greece.”

For she loved to swim.

Diving to the skin of the sea

to gather shells and salt smell.

She said that snails were the smartest creatures.

“They are never in a rush

and can escape in their shell

whenever it is all too much. Genius.”

She loved the water.

The two of them had such a

bonding coincidence.

Deep blues–like her soul.

Sadness in raging waves–

hidden underneath the unbreakable surface.

Chasms of concealed burdens.

Treading. Sinking. Drowning.

On Purpose.

I guess she came from the water

and returned the same way.

Her shoulder blades like angel wings

with our birthday tattooed on the right–

floating in the tub that we used to fill with bubbles.

.

When I think of my mother.

Everything seems so soft.

They say loss by suicide

forms grief like no other.

They weren't taken from you.

They didn't endure an accident.

They chose to leave.

Maybe she was never as tough

as I thought she was.

Maybe

she was always–

Soft.