the foot rub

by Derek Smith

in your mother's calendar
the lines are very straight,
between the days,
each and every day.

because the plants don't water themselves.

pockets of her coat deeper than her arms,
glasses framed by lines,
eyes that recede infinitely.

she doesn't remember everything
who it was that said
what someone said
but she remembers how it felt
and how high the tomatoes’ vines grew that year

placed on the table
next to the mail,
keys tired and defeated.
then, her daughter's hands,
first still,
stirred and clasped her feet
and rubbed in tiny loving circles.