MY MOTHER'S VEIL

Crumpled and yellowing
The mantilla rests
Untouched in the flowered hatbox -
That too a vestige from another age
Flowered and round with a ribbon to hold the top,
Also yellowed.

Within
Delicate lace to shield a delicate face,
To shelter delicate shoulders,
To screen once delicate love
Now the face, ashen
The shoulders, humbled
The love, withered.

Pulling it from its billowing tissue
Spreading it wide
The young bride says yes
I wear the mantilla of my mother
To honor her bond to me
And mine to her -
To be as she was.

She gathers my golden hair at the nape of my neck
She lays the lace gently over my head
She puts her hands around my waist
She kisses my eyelids
And sends me on my journey.