my mom and her soft-smelling skin, which seemed always to be warm. my comforter and undying loyal defender, she gave me a safe haven to explore who i am. native american rituals, sundance, the kiva, 2nd mesa, hopi, and the wind slipping through window cracks while the steady beat of a drum lulls us to sleep. the sweat lodge, the topless days at verde river with hazel. sunday drives with tracy chapman in the rambler. more driving across the southwest to the midwest and back. we were at home, us air signs, in the constant movement of road travel. born to stretch the limits and expand boundaries.
my mom has a slight dimple on her cheek and green eyes the color of yellowstone. i inherited her mischievious humor and celebration of life. she was the wind beneath my wings and i beneath hers--two birds skimming the waterline, dipping here and there.
ti amo mama
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I was just thinking of that Rambler yesterday. I wonder where it is now? I love the two birds skimming the waterline, dipping here and there...what a heartfelt writer you are, never limit yourself, not even a little.
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