My mother visited from out of town at the end of May. For the week that she was in, I showed her around my new city. Some of the sights and sounds, as well as flavors, I have come to appreciate here. Our favorite of the food was this Burmese restaurant that featured robotic waiters. I think, what I will come to remember most, beyond the hikes and talks and bike rides and walks and drives and activities, will be the in-between times we spent on the porch. She would smoke and play her word scramble game on her phone while I would pet the neighbor’s cat. At these times the least was said or done, but to me the most was felt. Maybe it was just the settling of the day’s events or the anticipation of the day to come. Whatever, those will be the memories.

More concretely I have a small notebook. It has become my custom to bring a pocket notebook and pen when visiting an art museum. I like to look at the art and jot down a few thoughts or feelings. I didn’t get much writing done this time, with mom. And I don’t even really like what I got, but during our walkthrough of the cities art museum we would sit and I would ask her for a topic to scribble about while we rest. The title of this post is her first suggestion. It is in reference to a cryptic looking painting of man looking a little peeved to find a woman in his bed, though they are naked. On this subject I wrote:

Sometimes the

warmth is welcome,

But a body can’t

stop from sharing.

To be

cold and collect

dust doesn’t

suit a set

of lover left

to wonder what

was the point

of an evening?

Except for the

moon’s mouth’s

corner curving

smiling much too soon.

For come the

morning my bed

is too small for two.

That’s rough. But the other poem written about “the tree of dots” is not even worth reading again. Later that day we ended up a favored pizza place and while waiting for our pie I asked her to write something. Along with some doodles of cows and an example of how she would doodle alternating rows of line when she was bored in her high school notebooks, she wrote this:

You can see the gentleness in their eyes.

Admire the simpleness of their lives.

To be able to meander in the meadows.

Mom loves cows. I love cows too. Hopefully one day we have cows.

I recommend all readers give mom a call. Or do something for a day with her. Ask her all the questions you felt you were too young to ask, even though you had maybe already guessed the answers. Share some maturity with her. Now that you’ve grown up yourself, ask her about how she grew up. It was something we never really talked about. But neither of us are kids anymore, and for most of our lives we will be adults together. That seems fucked up, but maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.