Momma’s Portrait

When I was young—
Long ago,
There were no photos.
If you wanted to be remembered—
After death,
You were painted, a portrait.
It was expensive,
Momma had been saving up.
She sat down on the stool,
In front of the painter.
I sat on a stool,
Behind him,
Watching.
Momma didn't smile,
She folded her arms.
She pulled out a cigar,
She lit it,
She drew deep breaths.
I said:
"Momma?
Are you sure about the cigar?"
Momma grunted
The painter said:
"Ma'am?
Maybe smile?"
Momma grunted.
She didn't smile.
I said:
"Momma?

Momma’s Portrait

Please reconsider the cigar,
The portrait is expensive"
Momma took the cigar,
Out of her mouth.
She glared at me,
Opened her mouth
"The cigar—
Is expensive too"
She popped it back in.
Then, it was later.
The painting was finished.
Cigars littered the floor.
A thick smoke filled the room.
Momma took her portrait home.
Then it was much later.
Momma's life—
Was near its end.
The disease—
Had wiped her brain,
Of any memory,
More than a few hours ago.
The bags under her eyes—
More defined.
Her hair—
Tousled, grey.
I showed Momma the poster.
She smiled,
Puzzled.

Momma’s Portrait

She said:
"Who is that?"
I said:
"Momma—
It's you"