I am on a mission, like all moms, straightening, dusting, attacking those
mundane tasks of housekeeping. As I move into the kitchen,
I glance at the clock and the numbers blink:
often 1:11, sometimes 2:22, or 3:33, 4:44, and 5:55.
They occur twice a day, of course, and in one half, I’m usually asleep.
But even then, sometimes I wake, and there they are: 1:11, 2:22, etc.
I notice them often enough to make me superstitious.
My mother believed in numerology,
and that when one noticed the numbers repeating,
it was loved ones in heaven, looking down, making a connection,
and letting you know that they were watching over you.
Of course, in reality, this seems a bit silly, because
the important parts of my mother are in me, and need no care.
Just like poetry is in me, she wrote her beliefs into my being.
The beliefs sit with me sometimes, just as my mother did so often,
dialoging about a dilemma, a challenge, a victory.
Sometimes it seems to be the time when I look at the clock,
and 4:44 appears, making it easy to remember:
Be kind, make lemonade out of lemons, always try to do things better
than the last time, and always, always go the extra mile.
Still, in lieu of the real thing, I like the numbers, a little visit
from my mother.