My mother is on her knees
in the late-morning sun, sorting heavy handfuls
of granite tiles. I have wandered
through whole rooms of claw-foot tubs,
played the patchy cat's game
of peekaboo around drawers
and kitchen cabinets. My mother's coat rustles
as she hefts the crate of stone squares.
At the cash register the light
is pink and green, filtered
through old pub windows
and reflected off antique hinges. The air
is sawdust and iron. My mother glows.
photograph by Caroline Contillo
