In 1978, after dinner with my parents, my mother drives me to the poetry workshop I am teaching in a neighboring town library. I am surprised when she asks if I’d mind if she sat in. The only books my mother reads are romance novels, and I am a little concerned about how she will fit in. She sits off to the side and writes on one of the yellow legal pads I’ve distributed. She doesn’t share her poem with the group, but I read it as she drives me to the train station.
I sit in my chair
It is quiet late
They are asleep and they
Smile at me from the walls
“Did you get that I’m referring to the family pictures?” she wants to know.
“Yes,” I reply, though in fact I hadn’t until she said it.
"I meant to write 'quite' but didn't have a chance to change it."
"'Quiet late' is lovely. Quite lovely!"
She smiles like in her high school class photograph.
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