Movie

My mother was a painter
In several mediums from
Oil to collage and more,
One summer day she
Asked me to come with
Her to see Dr. Zhivago
At the Broadway theatre.
We saw films together from
Time to time when I was a
Teen because we talked
About the film as two critics
Picking apart all aspects,
Good and bad with equally
Objective detailed analysis
Over a post-movie meal.
We shared a love of film and
Exchanged our careful
Comments like tennis balls
Across the table and back,
She enjoyed our exchanges.
She was by 50 surprisingly
Free of self-delusion having
Modeled for her figure
Painting class she knew the
Fat woman in the paintings
Was only her outward form,
They were her friends because
Of her sparkling personality.
She once gave me a card
That said on this dark night
You don’t shed much light
But your warm breath is
Strangely reassuring.
Her way of reminding me
How little I knew of life
At 17 years old and how
Critical to read and gain
A higher education no
Matter what the cost
While at the same time
Assuring me that my
Warm breath in the dark
Was a valuable asset
For a young man entering
The world of dating and
Attracting girls by more
Than a reference to Homer.
She died in her 50s and
Never reached her full
Potential as an artist,
She was always a humanist
And humorist though she
Went too soon to finish
Mothering my younger sibs.
I miss her wit and wisdom.