Iris

Today is Mother’s Day in Ireland. I no longer live in Ireland, nor is my mother still alive, but I remember her today, as I do most days.

I remember your hands busy, busy,
with Tupperware boxes in pastel shades,
or softly pushing back my fringe
for a good-night kiss on your way to a play.
The waft of Chanel from your calming arms,
my fingers lost in the fur of your coat,
the nightlight catching your bracelet’s charms,
‘That will be yours whenever I go.’

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