She’s a beauty, hair perfect, each strand tucked and coiffed,
cooking dinner, she’s focused.
Dad and I wait in the living room, TV off.
She demanded complete silence while she cooked,
though it was too quiet, the cracking of eggs
didn’t make a sound.
She moved around the small kitchen
as if gravity didn’t apply
because nothing applied to my mother.
She was beautiful and never made a mess.
When she finally came back to earth, telling us
she was done, not sweating a bit,
She didn’t even acknowledge the fact she was never alone in the matter
She never knew she was being watched and admired the entire time
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