thank you DiAnne Ebejer, for offering the picture for my interpretation.
i appreciate your sharing.

reflections in an opened window

looking in i remember her
looking out
to full-blossomed flowers
rolling hills and the wonder of morning

i listened to my mother’s voice
as an old philco scratched out songs
and static in worn out grooves
on the disk, a revolving 78

her hands dipped in soapy water
her eyes fixed on the distant hills
she stood much longer
than breakfast dishes required
but never long enough
now that my memory of her  has faded

when i look in
a soldier, back from war
i see only my own reflection
and a window i hoped to return to
filled with sound and my mother’s face
beckoning me in with words
and the smell of bacon

it is not only soldiers who die
on war’s battlefield
but also
those who could not watch them go