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It’s the bright lights my mother liked; she
knew how to turn her pretty head to capture
the best angle for the 16mm camera, rolling
lickety-split— her upturned face— the style
of her dress— her hat with its fascinating net . . .
My father lifts it in a hurry to kiss her lips . . .
I am not born yet; I come later . . .
A ribbon, not sure if it was pink or
blue tied on the bedpost. A sign, that
it was a good time to be together, she
told me, in that dreamy way of hers.
My father crooning “Beautiful Dreamer”
And how she would lower her eyes—
demure yet alluring— awaiting
their peerless kiss.