, ,


Mom can you see it
in the wrinkles of the tent
straight up
I try to focus my sleepy eyes
but see nothing but beige
and drift back into buried memories

for thirty minutes I would sit
staring at the used brick fireplace
two inches of cotton batting
separating my numb butt
and the wooden couch

they were there as always
the pink chip that looked like an old lady’s face
a rusty grasshopper with folded wings
the cloud like mortar smear that should have
but didn’t resemble anything

I preferred that to standing nose to the wall
even though the times were shorter there
you could not make pictures out of flat paint
in a statue pose even in my peripheral
avocado, avocado, avocado

he snuggles into my shoulder bringing me back
and I pull him tight against my body
cold air rushes into my now shared sleeping bag
you’re the best mom in the whole wide world
and then I see it

as big as three bricks
a perfect heart