...she carries a plastic bag filled with slippers she has knitted.
she touches my glasses to show me how she must struggle to see.
but there is no sign of struggle in her work which is as bright and flawless as she must have been once,
as I must have been.
...she touches my back
and I wonder how many generations we would have to unravel to find that we are related.
but we are already past what blood ties might mean
we are just two women, one old, one not-quite-so-old,
sitting in the sun of Cappadocia.
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL