the red book of stories

my mother

would read to us before bed.

she was a good

reader.

lively with the words

when needed,

or soft and gentle.

we believed everything

that she said.

she put

stories in our minds,

lighting a candle

of imagination

that has never died.

closing the book at last

and saying,

enough for tonight,

more tomorrow,

before tucking

us into bed,

kissing each one of us

equally

on the cheek, or

forehead.

she was a good mother.