SightLines

By Sarah Nance

I know the right side of my mother’s face better than any other part of her.

How soft lamplight brightened her cheek

How the 40-something lines tendered when she sat in her chair.

The perfect silhouette started with her right side: And her crossed-over, right foot kicked methodically at nothing…

At a dream, a magazine, An unfinished book she wrote Two finished books she once read An old friend in a red car Trips to Spain she’d never take A child she never had A secret she never told A missed appointment again A pill she forgot to take A field trip for to me to take A grocery list to fulfill A good life with someone else The first tear slid down her cheek Dissolving into a crease And she knew I saw it too.

It was always the right side of her face that answered me first Paused, ripped away from the dream, momentarily, she would turn to find me:

When are you coming back? I asked.

I’m right here. She answered.

I know the right side of my mother’s face better than any part of her face

But it is only a part of her. And I wish I knew the rest.