When I was a child,
my mother used to lie
in the floor and color with me.

With a mountain of Crayolas
between us and a pile of coloring books,
we made our own worlds.

She taught me how important
it was to stay within the lines,
to lay down hues with my crayons
very neatly within black-traced spaces.

The colors were never to bleed together
but to remain solidly in their individual compartments,
the strokes all light, even, and in the same direction.

Only thus were good pictures made,
and she and I –
we both made very good pictures.

I didn’t realize at the time
that she was showing me her life,
the strict regimentation required for
her to stay in her very small world.

Nor did I know that she was teaching me
the same fatal flaw that would cost her so much –
that to be happy, we had to earn each smile
by staying in the boxes drawn for us.

Finally, she broke free, erasing
every line that ever held her.
Even the ones that tied her to me.

That, she forgot to teach.