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.