The picture doesn't do her justice, don't think, but today would have been my Ma's 91st birthday. The day before Burns'.
My Mother’s Dictionary
The pages curl back from arcane all the way to chabazite and a paper black with anagrams, epsils, sepisle, sleep is, sleep is. Some words are marked. Otherness in bold red pen, tutelage. Near Spring, there’s a parchment of a leaf. In the margin by violin, the name O’ Brien, mysteriously underlined. Fanning the pages is to breathe her in, to the point you can imagine her, witchcraft, by that roaring fire again, smoke curling, words circling her legs like cats.