I bought Mother a trident for her birthday.
She yearned to reign over the sea, rise from its depth.
I settled on stainless steel. It had the right glimmer, curvaceousness. Grace.
She gave so much, capacity so exhilarating.
Encouraged me to write. Spoke love daily. Love, a constant word, a soft breeze.
I never gave anything. Cliched birthday cards. A story.
When I presented the trident, she smiled, youth resurrected. Eyebrows danced. Lips quivered.
She looked like a true monarch, trident in hand, raised high. “Move over, Triton,” she roared.
She carried it everywhere.
Next year, I’ll give her the ocean.
