This Vision

It could be an memory
or an image in my head

of you bending underneath the olive tree
wearing a tea length green dress
your hair pinned up in curls...

You are stunning,
as you pick up the half eaten fruit
tossing their pits into a metal bin beside you.

Here you are the mother I adore
you tend to your garden, clean our rooms with your strong bare hands
You keep a rag nearby, and wipe the sweat from your face.

After this you cook us dinner,
serve your husband with the grace only a woman can serve
--as he steps out on you in the evenings
To meet some blonde who laughs at his dirty jokes,
and tugs on his shirts in cheap bars.

He cannot shake you.
You are impervious as the desert to the rain.
You wake in the mornings and put on your fine wool
and earrings.
You step into your heels, that is all.

But what of this?
Years later
after a divorce and a new home in the suburbs--
No garden,
no more dresses or home cooked meals.

Put on your lipstick again, pin up your hair...
My mother of confidence,
my mother of superb strength.

Not for show,
but because you believe he didn't break you.

Because he didn't.