Several hundred people milling about on the long porch
of the clubhouse, then the first tee, the ball disappearing
into the sky. My mother appears, briefly,
a long-sleeved black dress, mid-calf,
and the hat: I never saw her in a cloche:
it’s black, a white band around the lip of the bell,
her eyes young from within it.
Either she is being pulled away
into the crowd, or she is going, teasing us
to follow. All we see of her is the one long flash
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.
Sign up for a free account and read any five pieces a month.
Previous
Next