My Parents

above: a photo of my mom and dad, taken before I was born

I remember this dress, when I was a young girl.  I wanted her to keep it for me, as I imagined myself growing into it, as it hung in the flimsy wooden closet of our trailer.  It held promise.  

She ended up giving it to my culturally adopted sister, who did fit it at the time, and I remember being upset, expressing myself to my Mom, not understanding that holding onto it for years and years, that dust might settle upon it, that it might lose it's sheen, it's appeal. 

My Mom passed in 2020, and recently, I finally had the right energy to digitize all of her old photos.  I was afraid of weeping before, yet now, I am able to reflect, and am happy to see glimmers of her through different moments in time.  Like this one, before I was even a glint in her eye, next to her love, a man from Missouri, who is also part American Indian, a mystery that I am unwrapping.

My Dad is still here.  He lives about a 10-12 hour drive from me, and we have gotten closer since her passing.  Here in Texas, I explain my southern accent by being half from "Missoura". 

These photos reveal myself to me.  I see her shining, and I think of my own smile. 

Shaped by their love, by the anticipation of me.