by Larry D. Thomas

--far West Texas

When we heard
the cold, clear water
of San Solomon Springs

sluicing through the canal
in the heart of Balmorhea,
we knew the lake was near.

The lakefront was steep,
strewn with boulders.
As Dad, Sam and I fished,

Mom, clad in the iron-rich
red of the boulders,
sat for hours on the shore,

staring at the backdrop
of Davis Mountains, so still
she was indistinguishable

from the stones.
I remember being haunted
by her visage, merging

so seamlessly with the rock,
and how she seemed,
though she would live

thirty more years,
already more memory
than vital, breathing self.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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