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I am making up this memory

Edwina Trentham

of my mother, long-limbed, half-smiling,

standing in sun-spangled water up

to her waist. She is lowering me

gently into the warm Bermuda sea,

her right hand firm under my back,

her left one cupping my small head.

I am almost one, and this is the first

swim of my life, so she wants to see

my eyes startle with delight, to watch

my clenched fists fly open, wants to feel

the swirl of my dark hair floating,

sliding cool between her fingers.

In this made up memory our gazes

are locked—like all those paintings

where mother and child stare deep

into each other’s eyes, can’t bear

to look away, they are so much in love.

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