Rita’s mom knitted

in her dim and quiet den

while Rita refilled coffee cups

in the diner on 12th.

Both women daydreamed

about snuggling days long past,

when the whole world

(all that mattered) was held

in an orangey greenish quilt

that smelled of menthol cigarettes.

–

Rita smiled through smoke and hash browns

and 37 cent tips, remembering

stories her mom told her

of birds carrying souls to heaven

and how lost feathers meant second chances.

Her mom didn’t stray much from her sofa

with the faded quilt

or her songs of spring breezes rolling

over green hills of some long forgotten fantasy;

she was hoping her daughter still had visions

beyond gravy and chipped formica.