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Time and Place

Mama had large glasses,

And her hair sat high on her head

In a dark, round bun

Secured with bobby pins.

She used to hide half her face

Behind those large buttercup glasses.

I even told her once that

She stole her own softness,

What with the beautiful honey brown hair

Hidden in a tight roll,

And the sharp luminous eyes

Shaded by the ugly yellow frames.

“Your father likes it this way,” she said.

I begged her to change it;

To change the old lady hairdo

And those damned glasses

That sat like a large lizard

Across her eyes.

“There is a time,

There is a place.”

I never understood her.

Time and place,

Time and place,

Time and place.

It became an illogical,

Unreasonable,

Meaningless little excuse

For her fear of change.

One day I found her crying on her bed.

Alone, in soft whimpers.

Her shoulders shook violently

With the effort of holding in all sound.

I reached over and touched her.

The strong, hard, sometimes brutal

Woman of my life

Was melting in swift rivulets.

Her hair undone,

Her glasses gone,

Her head in her hands.

She jumped when I touched her

And answered the question in my eyes

“Time and place,

Time and place.”

She showed no sign of weakness

In the day

And I thought I must have dreamt it.

But I caught her again,

Numerous nights,

Her hair undone,

Her glasses gone,

Her whole body

Breaking with each sob.

She cut her hair short one summer.

It fell in soft brown waves

Around her round face.

There were worry lines on her forehead,

And circles under her eyes,

But she was as beautiful as a young bride.

She traded the large buttercups

For new oval frames

That sat high on her nose

And illuminated her smile.

She read the question in my eyes again

And said quietly, holding my hand

“It is time,

This is the place.”

She seldom smiled after that,

But she never cried either.