Maman
My mother has a look on her face when she walks by herself in the park. I know cause I spy on her sometimes. I watch her watch TV. I watch her do things her way, like pouring palmfuls of water on the handle of the faucet, one palm after the other, a splash to a last soapy spot. In the past eight months I had more occasion to observe my mother than the first eighteen years of my life when I lived with her lastly. She picks flowers, always. She's a kleptomaniac of pretty things that grow on soil. No stroll ends empty handed. Lilacs now in Istanbul and before I left the house there was a tea glass on the coffee table with a sprig in it. A baby tulip on the kitchen table. Dried twigs in vases. The only time she visited me in Montreal last May she scouted for species she may not know. Together we stole from chez les neighbours if the precious was irresistible. We left a bulb with Masoud as we drove to the airport. Maman walks in tiny Chinese lady steps. She has sway. Swing. Undulati...