My Mother Gets Hopeful |
by Plamen Arnaudov |
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My mother gets hopeful after every hurricane.
My mother gets hopeful after every hurricane. She listens well and near the end of our call urges me to consider moving closer.
My mother gets hopeful when I request a spice from home or when during a visit I note the raw beauty of our countryside.
In contrast, the coquettish outline of our new house besieges her inbox and fills her with terrible sadness. She may not know much but she understands the sunlight pouring from the picture— it's the enemy.
My mother is not afraid that over an ocean and some dozen mountains her love might fade into a wisp for even if it does, this wisp— tempered in a thousand devotions— will still cut water and burn down rock for me.
My mother is only afraid that my untested love may grow distracted by the world's louder bounties and decline the most unsophisticated meal. |
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