Souvenirs

My mother takes the robefrom the hotel closet and the hangers.Then looks out the window

and points See—you forget!She takes the Atlantic Ocean, foldsit over several times to fit

into my suitcase. And what about these?She picks the thousands of rosesfrom the carpet. And this?—

slips the painting of the beach balland child from the wall. After telling herthese are not mine,

what can I say to the womanwho tells everyone I am the reasonfor the flowers and the rain, and

the sun revolves around me, butSorry, Mom, next time I'll remember. She takesthe box of tissues, sweeps

every grain of sand off the beach,collects the small shampoos, the plastic cups,the coffee maker, all the bed linens and,

though I remind her we alwayshave the sun, she findsenough room for the table lamp.