I remember your birthdays as always sunny,
with an occasional shower, maybe,
but I only ever picture you with golden shimmers.
Your smiles started as honeyed glimmers
reflected in your sky-blue eyes, rapt
with homemade gifts, so badly wrapped.
Once, we took you to a restaurant; inside
was candlelit while summer blazed outside.
Tipsy with red wine, tangled in spaghetti, sauce
on chins, we giggled when the waiter made a fuss.
In a different restaurant and another life,
trying to spread butter, you fumbled with a knife;
no smiles or giggles, your eyes clouded over,
spirited away by dementia, mother.
Kim M. Russell, 5th July 2020
My Mum would have been 83 today.