I watch a mother prop the angles of her daughter
up and out of her candy-apple-red wheelchair,
then place hands on the young woman’s sides
to guide her halt and hitch to the railing.
Behind me the café owner clatters chairs –
espresso, cologne, and body odor swirl the crowded steps.
On the promenade, this girl takes an unsteady step
away from her chair, pulls a funny face as her mom snaps a photo,
the spires of La Sagrada Familia piercing the haze behind her.
Marguerites twine her braided crown like a Frida Kahlo homage,
and yes, metal braces frame her Doc Martens,
from heavy feet to knees. I know this mom
has brushed the girl’s hair and teeth, dressed her in skinny jeans,
and now the woman-child squawks and sticks out her tongue.
I don’t know whether this mother holds a soft spoon
to her girl’s mouth at each slow meal, seals tape on each diaper,
or draws syringes full of sticky red meds to ward off seizures.
Is it terrible that sometimes my grief feels like relief?
Barcelona spreads like a painted fan beyond the steep stairs
sweeping up Montjuïc from the Magic Fountain –
my first time in Spain, first trip since my son died.
I don’t know where this mother parked the adaptive van,
nor how she chose this place, this day:
the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya, the grand marble staircase
guarded by two sculptured, muscular women.
When clouds of pigeons lift from these huge stone goddesses,
the young woman’s hands flap – a small myth of wings,
her tight red sweater bright and defiant.

 

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From Magma 93

 

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