A found sketch of my mother

In a drawer, among her things,
I found the sketch my father inked,
Years ago, before my coming wrinkled her brow, sprinkled gray in her cascade of dark auburn hair.
She looks out at me, fierce, lovely, in a
frilly blouse, her bow to style.
Arms crossed she tries to defend against his
inking out her inner, secret self,
but he, in the quick strokes shaping her eyes, one half closed, the other smoldering
with smokey shadow,
he succeeded in opening her inner anger
to all who see the sketch – capturing her cynicism, tough love for life, and annoyance
that he has offered her the day's first cigarette, but left it untouched by a match,
probably refusing to light it until his pen
has finished having its say.
She always did dislike waiting. But she kept
this sketch among her other treasured ephemera
and so will I.