My mother and I wore the same size shoe.
when I would trade soles
out of rotation I would hear
“Dang Fatman, I really liked those ones”,
or, “You can never keep just one pair”.
Fluttering her eyes enticing me to share reminding me:
My mother’s eyes are green, not brown.

My mother knew me best,
never without money.
From the stash between my mattress
to the third shoebox from the wall.
Moving my stash resulted in her asking,
“Can I borrow a couple dollars”,
when she really meant twenty.
Never saying no to my first love.
Looking at me, her eldest,
Reminding me:
My mother’s eyes are brown, not green.

My mother saw me from the most
acute and obscure angles.
Flaws and strengths.
Reminiscent of the nest she
once called home as she spread
her battered wings, that once shielded me, to fly into the sun.
I do not remember the last time we spoke.
Questioning the lessons, cherishing gray moments as she leaves behind photos and voicemails.
Living now in confusion, but accepting
Mother’s eyes were Green,
but sometimes Brown.

by. Philip G. Steverson