When I Miss Her
6/10/2013
My mother called me beautiful
as rains pounded against glass
and a gloomy mood
set down and hushed the hallways.
In her chosen chair,
she stirred in fits and starts
complained my hands were cold
squeezed them ‘til they turned blue.
When finally she woke
to walk back to her bed
she reached her tender hands
to cup my face and in
her native custom
kissed both my suntanned cheeks.
My mother called me beautiful –
as someone she might know?
A variation on her self?
My mother called me beautiful
then returned to rest
rain still rapping on the roof.
Find You in the Sun - A daughter's slow waltz with her mother's dementia. 
what a beautiful poem! made me think of how my mother spoke with me and beautiful memories of what my mom and I enjoyed doing together.
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Beautiful! You ARE beautiful!
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