I imagine a dark and stormy night,
fat drops of rain sliding down window panels
like spilled ink across a canvas.
She must have been crying—my mother.
In the movies, they’re always crying.
She must have been alone, left behind
by some mysterious lover with dark eyes
too poor to buy a loaf of bread,
much less feed her only daughter.
She was likely wrapped in a thread-barren cloak,
soaked to the bone from the rain and from her tears.
The Peregrine Review: Vol. 35, Article 21.
Available at: https://mosaic.messiah.edu/peregrinereview/vol35/iss1/21