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In Praise of My Mother

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My mother does not sing.
She can drink a glass of milk
or eat the last slice of chocolate
cake at 7:00 on Wednesday
evening: she could care less
about saving her vocal chords.
She does not have to practice
scales and arpeggios in front
of the bathroom mirror so that
she can see how wide her mouth
is. She does not stick the practice
tape into the tape player and try
to remember how to rewind it.
She does not have to iron her
white blouse and make sure
those black pants are clean
and look for her shiny flats in
the basement for a concert.
She can sleep in on Saturday
mornings instead of waking up
early for five-hour intensives.
My mother does not sing.





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