It’s not every day I wake up roused and ready to go at you. The coffee arrives and I look at your shoulders and neck. You stretch. I take a big
bite from my oat bran bagel as you tear little pieces from your sesame bagel and you gather the escaping seeds into a little bundle on your lap.
Your proper posture is a thing of which mothers should be proud, and as they display their daughters to the brute envious eyes of other mothers such a fine posture must be particularly galling. Then there is your good taste in clothing, your civil but piquant tongue, your penchant for the fine arts, your luxuriant but arrestingly-kempt hair, your refined manners, and the elegance with which you hold your hands, palms upward, in your lap when manifesting all these accomplishments. In the sitting rooms of good hotels or private clubs you must have been the very point of the lance of your mother’s social jousting.
If these moments of maternal satisfaction did not perchance happen, let’s not blame God or your mother or you or your sisters and brother or even the hotels and clubs as stand-ins for the social order.
roses carved trefoils