Portraits

It was a rainy day when I 
Stumbled upon the stack of drawings
Tied up with a red ribbon, now faded
Forgotten in the sands of time
 
I dusted off the layers of grime
And uncovered the treasure chest
Of portraits etched in black and white
Signed in my mother’s handwriting
 
Of strong and sure and bold lines
Of people shorn of artifice
The portraits held unknown to me
Echoes of a once promising life
 
Anger scarcely marked her terror
When she discovered me with her beloved portraits
And clutched them tight to her breast
At my questioning stare
 
I held out little hope for my timid mother
Who had extinguished her fire
The bonds of home and hearth had long
Stamped out all wayward desires
 
Come morning the scent of burnt wood
Led me to the makeshift studio
Strewn with pencils and freshly made charcoal
To my mother mending the portraits.