Every day she smiles

with a cup of decaf

“Yá’át’ééh abíní.” (Good morning)

 

She’ll talk about the days

of black and white photos

when polaroid pictures were still new.

For her in those days,

the smiles came by a dozen.

 

She would switch to

family issues:

of sickness and

deaths from covid or natural.

Her amber eyes droop to her mug

as her wrinkled hands tighten.

 

She thinks I don’t listen to her.

 

But her voice is

shaking with each word.

She continues

and forces a smile

“I love you che’e(daughter)”

 

She waits.

 

“I love you to mom”

Her smile turns genuine.

Her shoulders drop slightly,

her grip loosens on the cup.

“God loves you too.”

 

I nod.

 

She doesn’t think I listen.

Her words at times

sting like a wasp

as she leaves an awkward silence.

 

Her hair is loose

and falls about her oval tanned face,

with strands of silver and grey.

She’s still holding her decaf coffee,

Her gaze is unfazed

as she looks into my eyes

searching and waiting for something.

As if waking up, her creamed coffee eyes

light up, “My coffee, I better drink it.”

 

She turns to leave,

and her footsteps echoes

love you.