I am sitting in a hard chair
Thousands of miles away from my mother,
But my hair is damp
And I can’t help but think
Of the apples
That used to be put in a small tin,
Handed to me when I got in her car,
Warming my hands.
Applesauce.
It’s an ache within my heart,
A tingle at the tips of my fingers.
I am so far away,
Yet I am thinking of who I once was.
It’s my orange
Split in half
To be shared.
The labor of love
Is my mother standing over a metal pot,
Stirring the apples.
I can still smell it
As I walk through the door
And peel off my shoes.
I can see my life before,
Sometimes like a blurry Polaroid
Or a clear-cut movie,
Swallowing me up
As the professor talks on.
