Often I walk through a hotel parking lot on my way to work. As I do, I look down at the asphalt, a habit borne from having found a dime or two in the past.
One day, I notice a name tag stuck to the asphalt. I was fooled once, years ago, when I tried to pick up a fake hundred-dollar bill taped to a sidewalk, so I’m not inclined to stop.
But I give the lost name tag a second look. Written neatly in the center of this name tag is the name Betty. Now I stop walking. I take a deep breath.
One’s parents are everywhere, if you look. My mother’s name was Betty.
I take another breath. This time, I hold it in.
my mother’s smile
a dotted line
stitched shut
haiku and senryu have appeared in Under the Basho, Failed Haiku, and Hedgerow, among other journals, and his haibun have been published in Contemporary Haibun Online. He works as a licensed counselor in Southern California, where he lives with his family, their cat, and two horses.
