A poem by Marilyn Darley Williams


            (for Mother)

It is not what she would want me
to remember
but I picture her
            fresh washed hair
            done up in brush rollers
            crisp white sleeveless blouse
            with denim shorts.
If I squint real hard,
I can see her in a party dress,
hair bouffant, straight from the salon
rhinestones dangling;
mostly I see
            the hair rollers,
            see her sitting at the piano.
With the washer jumping out of tune
in the other room,
I watch her play Sunrise Serenade
            then Nola.
I hear her long painted nails
            clicking on the keys.

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