Memory of Mom

Memory of Mom

Mama's voice echoes deep and certain.
I press my ear hard against the bare skin above her neckline. The soft scent of her rounds my face then fills my nose. I breathe deep and give in. My ear, suctioned to her chest, pardons no sound. Rumbling deep is a deliberate storm. Mama's words are not for me. I'm ok to dissolve beneath them in the slurry of adult matters. Her touch, however, is mine alone. As she discusses a cuss over this and those, Mama's fingers deliberately comb.
Over my ear and down my neck
Over my ear, down my neck
Over my ear... and down.
Over... and down
The pattern of her touch engraves the wax of her voice. It spins my mind in child time. We dance together like this.
We are dancing.