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A Framed Photograph
She would have been eighty-six
on our nation's birthday;
I, the day after, turn just shy
of sixty by three years.
When I look at her photograph,
one she took for her three children,
I see a woman who wanted more
from life than she was willing
to take before infirmities rendered
her unable to do so.
She clung to ideals and hope
that comforted her inside,
even if others were at odds
with her choices.
And I, her daughter,
cry from the inability
to ask questions about life,
ones she so enthusiastically
answered, or express my love
in weekly phone conversations,
where even sitting in a nursing home,
she kissed my face all over and put
her arms were around me from three
thousand miles away.
Now, more than miles separate us,
yet seeing her face in that photograph,
night after night, her spirit
grants me the peace I desire.
She watches over me while I sleep,
as she did when I was a child,
making sure that the monsters
under the bed sift through
window screens and dissipate
in the dark before they invade my dreams.
Michelle Angelini