I always held mum’s hand walking

to the museum. She always had such

feminine fingernails.

Shiny and strong.

Her skin was warm and soft

wrinkled by years she spent carving

building a future and a path,

A better way for me to follow .


We would walk over little

wooden bridges that crossed over

running streams.

Past the glass house

Victorian and conserved,

in a display of sunny arrays that

brought out her eyes.


Walking to the museum

Holding mum’s hand.






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