Theodora — Ursula K. LeGuin
I think how fine my mother was.
Her doing and her things were lovable.
Her turquoise bracelets, her violet
dinner dress with a jeweled waist.
The way when she was undressing
she’d go around with her nylons unhitched.
I think of all this now with tenderness
and comfort in the recollection.
Oh I was so angry at her when she died
for dying, but at last that’s gone
and she comes to me again with silver
and turquoise on her wrists
in the sunlight.
