Her mother's quick fingers sewing up holes:
The perpetual holes of poverty, buying clothes secondhand.
The holes mended, her mother would retreat to
The kitchen, a place of comfort and of golden smells mingling.
Even in the garish yellow sunset streaming through the small window,
The one with the little blue curtains,
Her mother gave off a strong beautiful radiance.
Her father home from his humble taxi driver's job,
Locked in embrace and emotion, they were twin mountains.
And she was a foothill in their shadow.