My mother’s cheeks are warm and pink
under the crisp white sheets
in the billowing blue morning wind.
She shakes them out and over the silver line
to sun-dry in the golden day of pudgy helplessness.
Deep brown coffee grounds in a flannel bag
smell like morning and chicken and mieliepap.
We walk over green hills to visit him and her and the next
thing we know we are in a field of yellow buttercups
of sugar and tea and half a loaf of bread.
Tear stained hands and purple sweaters in Checkers bags,
red faced pimply mornings running from fire cracker eyes,
the noses in the crisp white air,
the fall, the pick up, the mint green Turkish delight
and cotton candy kindness on sharp wooden sticks.
You were a friend to me,
and I remember you fondly
with all the red dress wide eyed gap toothed memories of yesteryear.