Climbing Stairs

When I was in front to present

the Mt. Pinatubo drawing that I made, I saw

my mother across me, her hands

clasped.

I wanted to cling to her flowing dress,

to stand beside her

as I faced the crowd:

other kindergarten children

and their mothers, were eyeing the mountain I made:

filled with smoldering ash

of dark grayish color.

I was delivering my lines,

mother mouthed the words in my lips

waved her hands to prompt me

she did

many times during rehearsals

that never seemed to end.

 

 

Now when my mother listens to me, I wonder

if she still prefers the same color to the mountains –

for the mountains have gone green in my eyes. And as I step forward

to the place I want to go

without any hesitation

the sensation from the touch

of her dress slips between the gaps

of my fingers:

I say, “I’ll be all right.”

And her hugs feel even warmer than

before – as if they chain the heart

inside. She nods and says God Bless

to the things

she hardly understands.

 

I’m caught up between my mother’s touch

and stepping up

climbing stairs. I

in the middle, mother at the end,

(or is it the other way around?)

 

and the distance feels longer than I thought, each time

I step up closer to the top.

Tags: climbing stairs, khareen, narrative poen, poetry