My Mother's Book

High on a shelf are some old hard-back books;

Mary Poppins is one on the pile.

An inscription inside, in a neat cursive hand,

Which I recognized, caused me to smile.

 

It belonged to my mom, which she got as a gift

From a teacher in her junior high.

Though it’s faded and worn, I won’t toss it away,

But it’s hard to exactly say why.

 

Such a link to the past is, to me, like a lens

Which allows a brief glimpse of a time

When my mother knew not that a mother she’d be,

Years before from her youth she did climb.

 

So I dusted it off and replaced it up high

On the back of the very same shelf,

A reminder of life when I didn’t exist

And my mom lived her life for herself.