The dusky floral smell of oud,
caressing my nose as small hands held the
folds of well worn dark cerulean hue
fabric - that is the smell of home.
The taste of home is of cooking so diverse.
Skill of both great countries here, and on the other side.
Catering for a liminal and finicky child as I.
Each bite spreads the love and spice
of words unsteady, spoken never not naught once:
a quiet
\'i love you.\'
Once, oh she said it Once, eyes with sad fire.
mama i told you I Want To Go. let me go!
but my home is still forever You. Not in your arms,
but laying right on top of you, my head on your chest.
and your heartbeats come slowly now,
like the sickness you had long ago
comes back again once more, the cruel tide of age.
No longer as fast and young and alive,
as the athlete you once were.
uncomplaining strength, the worlds best
hidden, tempered, unheard of athlete
she is Olympic, my world, my universe,
and my first and last best friend,
in a sea of fabric she is the steady thread.
mama.