For My Mother

by HausOfDay

  • Poetry
  • Narrative · Romantic

Published March 23, 2012

We were drinking tea in Starbucks the day I learned
to love you again. Love, whole, and full, 
no room for air; love like drowning. 
 
Creases in the skin around
your lips, as you smiled, two crescent moons
either side of your mouth.
 
I had forgotten your warmth, how it
bloomed from you. 
 
In that smile, your existence broke over me 
and, sitting beside you, I knew you had 
come back to me, knew you were mine.
 
Love rushed out of my body,
crashed into the empty space between us.
It thrust its way through my chest,
I felt it in my fists, my feet,
as it danced it’s way around my skull and spine.
 
Taking the cup, tight, in both hands, 
I turned my face to the window, 
away from you, scared you would notice
love falling from my eyes.
 
 
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It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill —The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it—and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another.
— JRR Tolkien