Mother on the beach
her yellow and white floppy
K-Mart hat
sheltering her
Iowa pale skin
and I resenting
she looking out of place
between my friends
around
young bronzed men
thinking I was much too old
to be chaperoned.
How quickly I’ve forgotten
when fifty yards was
a world apart
crying unashamedly as only
three-year-olds can
The horror not yet fading
as I saw
Mamma running in her muumuu
and me running into softness;
The heat of her sunburnt face
the warmth of my tears
how grateful I was then
Mother was with me
on the beach —
When did I learn to become
so ashamed of my Mother?
© Sabrina Santa Clara, 1988