exact shape of me

Three months with my mother,
her safe nest of talks, knitting, walks,
we share our history of upheaval -
my restless father dragged us all
from job to job, continent to continent,
my mother’s needs stowed away seething
in boxes, loaded onto moving vans,
we children falling through the cracks.

Flung around like fire, my mother’s rage,
my father’s temper, their daily fights ablaze,
I dodged them both, ran for cover inside books,
in stories about children with more
magical lives.

But now at 58,
independence knocked to its knees,
I retreat to her - the packing boxes long gone,
the foundation of her life rock solid,
the space in her heart ready and waiting,
the exact shape of me.

We curl up with coffee in the morning,
look out over frosty ponds and forest.
Together we run our dogs along the trails,
the crunch of frozen leaves underfoot.
Evenings, we take turns cooking, light candles,
applaud the crimson sky, count our blessings.