Some years ago, while we were on holiday together, my mother gave me this little statuette. It’s the Rooster of Portugal: a symbol of good luck.
I once planned a trip to Portugal myself,
hoping to bring my mother back her own Portuguese rooster.
The trip never happened; on bad days, I think perhaps it never will.
You think you can keep tabs on it — predict the things you can and can’t do —
but then there is the passage of time
and of fear.
Still, I have my rooster,
and the memories of that holiday with my mother.