The Other Side of the Sun

Mama lives in a house that gazes over Central Park.
Though she dreamed about owning a ranch in the countryside,
she found serendipity in the cacophony
of New York City.

From what I remember,
her house is embraced by the fragrance of fresh-out-the-dryer towels
and sweet blackberry jam.
The begonias from the local bodega
waltz along with the gentle chirping of city birds,
just outside her window. 
Her fancy china and half-knit sweaters sit patiently on display in the living room,
and her Vinicius de Moraes' bossa nova record collection 
sleep soundly
under her twin-sized bed.

Mama wears crimson apples on her lips.
Just like me.
Her skin is dressed in smooth, vanilla whiskey.
Just like me.
And her hair, soft and thin,
delicately spills down her small shoulders.

What I remember most about mama are her eyes.
Ablaze and warm.
They remind me of the sunrises we used to watch together each morning.

I imagine that she's drinking her morning Earl Grey on the front steps right now.
I imagine that she's reading a book about Amelia Earhart's disappearance, wrapped in her lace, Victorian nightgown.
I imagine
because I have to.
because of him.  

For now,
I only see her when I wake up to watch the sunrise.
Because I know that she’s watching it too.