Growing up in Oklahoma, my mother had three strikes against her: too smart, too tall and too Indian-looking. My grandfather paid $5 to the boy who took her to the prom. Until she married my father, she never knew she was beautiful. Gone now, nearly twenty years. Questions gnaw. Who was she then and how was the prom? Who was she later and was I a good daughter? So much I could have learned if only I’d asked. I open and unfurl a used ruby-red lipstick and tenderly touch my fingertip to the soft saddle that last met her lips. (100)
A poem to all missed mothers💕 thanks
oh becky i’m crying. of course you were a good daughter. the best of kind. devoted half-wild and not a copy of anyone.