Baguio in summertime, in the '60s. The lake has a central fountain that shoots a jet of water into the air. It falls back down and does it over again, until the motor is shut off at night. The water isn't crowded with rowboats yet. In front of the gazebo in the middle of the skating rink, someone took a photograph of my mother, bending down to give the little red tricycle I'm pedaling a push from behind. We are not dressed for this kind of outing: she's in stilletos, a sheath skirt and cropped blazer in checked beige. I'm wearing a dress with puffed sleeves, squinting in the light, a bow in my hair. I like to remember her this way, especially now that she spends most of her days sleeping under pink flannel blankets, when not being fed soft soups and fruit by the day or night nurse.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
