:ritual:

I would find her mid-morning
Her hair half-tussled to one side
The brush hanging loosely from a knot
half the size of Texas
Considered outifts lying on the bed, a sultry mess.

She would get down on one knee
almost as if proposing to a lover
And I would quietly zip up her dress
As she forlornly tugged on the tangled brush
In those few still moments before the impending rush

A bowl of artificial cereal
Slowly stirring spoon in the now-pink milk
But for her, something more adult
(such as nothing at all), while spilling conversation
the only thing her form of life did not ration.

Then a piling of purses, backpacks, umbrellas
Into the metallic blue and grey van
As she pulled out mascara, blush, and rouge
In the rearview mirror, the reflection of her face
watching the daily morning race.

date:September 27, 2007
And this was also done for Creative Writing class. The assignment was to write a poem about a ritual, with a few stipulations as to rhyme scheme and structure.
This isn't really entirely about my mother, but then again it is. I don't live with her and haven't really spoken to her in years, so my memories of her are a bit scattered. Some of this is elements I've gotten from television, but most of it is real.