Stanzas in a notebook.

My mother’s way of expressing emotion.

This is one of the things I’ve inherited, a written way to show my devotion.

I can find notebooks full of poems in my mother’s room.

Mixed in with sermon notes and little sketched blooms.

She still writes.

Still fills up the pages.

But now they are full of grease marks and diagrams of different gauges.

She went back to class to learn the ins and out of engines.

It has been her lifelong dream, now she can thank heaven.

Her graduation.

The date is quickly approaching.

And when she walks across the stage,

Roles will reverse and I’ll be the one watching.

Now when I am so proud of her, and the spoken word escapes me,

I can pick up a pen and show her what I’m thinking.

Poetry.

Sometimes my sworn enemy,

But It gives me a connection with her, better than any passed down remedy.