Mother’s Day Morning
The aging yellow brush of her favorite broom swishes dust and seeds off of the salmon Trex deck. Mira’s Portuguese cascades high and low like a melody as she sweeps single-handed, the phone at her ear.
Across the yard, the tallest maple sways, green leaves trembling in a passing spring breeze.
Earlier, Frankie and I guided her outside. He led her to a seat at the stone patio table, while I kept my hands over her eyes. After we settled her, he ran to retrieve her steaming cup of coffee.
She opened her eyes to a breakfast of re-heated pancakes, scrambled eggs as puffy as cotton ball cumulus and that steaming coffee. Frankie’s Mother’s Day treat.
She finishes her sweeping and heads back inside. I stay in the chaise. My neighbor’s Camry reflects a glaring ray of sunlight right into my eyes. I close them, listening to the robins’ staccato songs, delivered from the high branches above.
slipping on her sneakers
on the deck stairs
more by FRANK J. TASSONE
photograph by Jeri JohnsonHire An Editor