Night rain baptizes my skin.
The moon highlights storylines
wrinkled into your face.
My scarred stomach folds over my skirt
like yours did when I was a kid.
Our knees crack,
our pants and breasts sag,
our hair thins and grays.
You still write me letters,
inking your motherly love
into envelopes.
But your letters slant, the lines
shaking more now than they used to.
You watch tennis on TV
practicing volleys in bed,
convinced you could beat
new players with a deadly forehand.
Dad still drives to the store
half-blind to buy you stamps,
and hauls in the Christmas tree,
refusing help as his kids and wife
sip wine, and grandkids
crawl around the needles.
He still throws a football,
slower than he once did,
careful not to rest on his bad hip.
Content to pass it to a kid,
cheering from behind
as they run over the goal line.
Night rain baptizes my skin.
Dad places three cups of chamomile
on the porch table. You rest
your worn hand in mine.
Inside children scream and giggle,
chasing each other, playing tag.
We watch the clouds fade,
revealing a tapestry of planets and stars.
Morgan Santaguida grew up in a small Pennsylvania town. She has previously been published in Stylus, Whimsical Poetry, and Cathartic Literary Magazine. She is now living in Massachusetts as a young writer, studying at Boston College.