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.