My friend Linda Goin wrote a lovely poem inspired by this photo of my mother.




Haloed by yellow light,

wrapped snug

in soft brown shadows,

she sits

in a warm tintype.

She spies

her more vibrant self

in the window's reflection.

A barefoot dancer

with ruby-red nails

on pink toes poised

to leap beyond

her wheelchair,

flushed legs vibrating

with muscle memory

as she strains

to music only she can hear.


She knows her strength,

once taken for granted

by a lanky-limbed woman

who twirled

under every blue sky,

who sang spirit into songs

older than her skin.

Those hands formed a life

stronger than her laced fingers

can whisper, a family now held

close to her laugh, held

like rainbow drops

in a cat's cradle.

The photographer, her son,

holds this moment

for her,

for us all,

as she sees one more thing

in that window, hears

one more song

she wants

to remember.