My three-year-old mother’s chubby cheeks

And wide, almond eyes have been caged in newsprint,

Staring out from the aged page.

She attended the Creche nursery school,

Meaning “cradle” for the needy children of working mothers.

Each day, the little ones made holiday decorations,

Celebrated birthdays,

Dressed up in adult clothes.

What games did she make up?

Who did she pretend to be?

What did she make believe?

This little pumpkin of a girl

Would be magicked into a mother

Who made up the game, “If I don’t eat, the cancer doesn’t grow.”

She pretended that the more groceries she bought,

The longer she’d live.

She made us believe her stubbornness could refuse Death. No, thank you.

Her almond eyes stare out from my face trapped in the mirror.

I dress up in adult clothes and decorate my home for holidays that she’s not around for.

Birthdays keep us moving forward,

While she’ll never turn a day older than sixty.