Postcard, Again with Mother

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.

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