By Adelina Treviño Bradshaw
My mother rarely called me by my name.
She said mija,
mi amor,
my little bird as I flitted about the house.
She said my beautiful daughter,
mijita,
mi cielo,
and my love while she held me in her arms.
In two languages,
she rained down terms of endearment for thirty years.
And when she died, they dried up.
© 2021