The mother was a fixer all her life,
who taught her little girl to people-watch
for make-overs, and labor as a wife
repairing every incidental botch.
She’d walk into a room and redesign
in mind the furniture and color scheme.
Maintaining that she couldn’t draw a line,
she took on tasks and errands as her theme.
The daughter didn’t mimic or conform,
but she stayed close and now can testify
that noticing what’s wrong creates a swarm
of negativity as years go by,
that grows an oldster hemmed in harsh refrains
who only feels alive when she complains.
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