Your face halfway hidden in the red scarf that she knitted for you long ago when you wouldn't turn your face from the ocean and look at her. I remember that day when she was sitting on a wooden chair, the room smelled of tarragon and firewood and you stood with your back to her staring at the ink blue ocean. Her hands knitted steadily and you never knew the pain she endured with the hands that disobeyed with pain. And you never knew that each time she stared at your dark sad curls, she knitted her stifled poems into a red scarf that you wear now to hide your beautiful face. And she remembers all this with a faded smile while she knows the ocean could still be inky blue and your scarf must still be poetically red.
Hydeh Aubon (12/27/07)
