Shifting Shawls

She shrugs; it shifts.
Shimmering light gleans on lurex.
Bare, milky neck; coiffed hair; raw silk stands stiff.
Ebony satin climbs my mother’s elbow;
hands lost to sophistication.
Musk scent too heady floats, clouds
my senses. I cannot enter this world.
Wrapped shawl fabricates another’s façade.
– She is lost to me.

She hunches; it hangs.
Soft white, cotton wool-like, for warmth.
Crepe-papered skin, powdered in places,
creases with a smile.
Gnarled knuckles wrap a steaming mug.
Lemon dishwashing liquid lingers.
Gentle gestures caress an ebb and flow
between us; we chatter
of children and chores and memories. Always
– she is with me.