ever since i could remember,
it's been my mother against the world.
instead of following pace
with the rest of the universe,
she battles with time.
the memories of failed loves,
of third world countries, of dysfunctional families
never leave her orbit,
constantly dizzying her, wearing her down.
the battle never seems to end, either,
everything aches for too long,
everything moves without rush,
her wounds always feel fresh.
but my mother has a secret weapon, you know.
she calls it her "tiny sparkle,"
a tiny glimmer of hope
that things will get better.
i imagine this sparkle is like a
shard of crystal, tearing away
at abusive husbands,
at disapproving mothers,
at american dream myths.
she called me up this morning,
trying to hide the pride in her voice.
she wrote a letter at work, she tells me,
and it had no grammatical errors.
"i won't believe it until i see it," she says,
and i can picture her mouth twitching as though not to smile,
"but i just might get that promotion."
that's my mother,
i thought to myself,
every day she battles her demons
one by one.
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