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Deborah 3/31

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I passed my mother on the New York State Thruway. She didn’t notice this clone of crone pass her by.
Late model crimson Volvo had struggled through better days.
Stickers with statements and rolled cardigans lined the back window.
She sat low in the straight seat. Her hair was my twin,
dark auburn spirals resting on her tapestry shoulders.
Potpourri packages swinging from rearview mirror
to ward off odors of things left
disregarded in the backseat.
She glanced over at me as I drove by.
I noticed the crow’s feet in the corners of her hardened eyes
and I couldn’t decide whether they were saying:
This life is not, nor has it ever been, a place for a child
or miss you still.
And, I wondered if she could recall
where she was not quite three decades to the month…
Dropping a child into the summit of Aries.

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