Morning Coffee

When I think of my mother,
I think of old, used envelopes
Scattered on the kitchen table.
When I would get up in the morning,
I would sit with her. She would drink coffee,
I hot chocolate, being the little girl I was.
We would talk about everything.
Sometimes she would grab an envelope
To illustrate an idea.
She would diagram each part,
Sketching her words into pictures,
Then drawing arrows and pointing
Until I understood.

She loved to show me her plans
For her new directions of art.
I can distinctly remember
At least three different periods,
Each one branching off of another.
She would always say
That she got her ideas from watching me,
And that I made her career.
I wonder if I actually did,
Or if she was just saying that
To make me feel more important.