I was a baby

held by my Mother

tightly to her breast.

Her long black hair

brushed against my face.

She smelled like lilac soap.

It was summer

and the kitchen was hot.

She was baking a cake.

Her apron was dusted with flour.

Her dog, Old Trixie, a spitz,

was at her heels barking

at nothing in particular.
March 11, 2017

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