Every love a mother can give each moment we live your Sicilian eyes in the old pictures with their longing make me a little crazy lately but I will try and be the one to turn the tides to peace
Am I that strong? The warrior I said I would be– at times I am a mouse lost in my own maze the lab shut up for the night and no cheese no little bell to ring no point
but I will press on–struggling to find out why I trudge through (harder than it has to be) until I cry out I am here– I have made it– Mother
Do you remember you said I never would accomplish much I know (you had your doubts) but I hoped I pulled I strained, and perhaps I have made you smile somewhere up there
I reveled in storms then standing in my yard daring the lightning and laughing my wet hair hanging like a robe
Mom was always afraid of storms, something I could give back talking her through every burst of weather on the touch-tone telephone
In 1996 when the tornadoes came and a tree fell, just inches from her mortality we laughed. I had coffee, cold with the lights out, and she had tea
Mom died from the cancer almost exactly a year later but for a minute it felt like we would live forever and when the thunder cracks I can still hear her laugh
This is in honor of my mother. I didn’t grieve well when I lost her roughly 25 years ago. There is always something missing when I write poems about her–her humour. I see bits of it when my brother laughs. They both have / had these dark eyes that disappear when they laugh. My son, well when he was born and put on my shoulder–I could not hold him yet as I was delirious with some very nice pain-killer cocktail the anesthesiologist gave me–my first words were, “He has Mom’s eyes.” He also has her sense of humour and tendency to puns, both good and bad. I lost her when I was six months pregnant with him, and I got her back in part when he was born. He told me he wanted me to write down her stories so he has them when I am gone, since I retain most of the memories of her. Here is a memory that is making me smile today.
Our parents struggled financially while we were growing up, and she was a whiz at making sure everyone ate well. We all ended up overweight so that says something about how good she was. Someone she knew had a farm north of here and said if she would pick the corn she could have whatever she picked. I went out there with her and it was a brilliant, sunny day. We picked and chatted, like we always did. Well there was this huge oak tree, I mean gigantic. My mom was tall, 5’10” and I am no slouch at 5’7″, but it was too big to get my arms around it. I know because I tried. Why? Because it was there. I always wanted to hug a tree. Well, I said, “Mom, let’s hug that tree.” She just looked at me, looked around. No one would see us. So we did it and our arms put together did reach all the way around until our fingers touched. This is a lovely moment I will never forget.
banish the regrets keep the sunny bits wrapped with string open when rain falls
I miss your tasty meatballs, with onions, not cut fine, because you couldn’t be bothered. You broke up crackers into the meat instead of bread crumbs, and after you fried them, I would sneak and pick off the cracker pieces to eat when you weren’t looking.
When I came of age, I couldn’t see how much alike we were, and how marvelously different. I frustrated you by not balancing my checkbook, your eyes so big when I told you I was ‘only a dollar or so off.’ Once I saw you spend hours to find fifteen cents in the ledger.
You let me talk as much as I wanted. You never told me to be quiet, or ignored me. When I left home, we were on the phone often, even when I was missing birthdays and mother’s days, I knew you understood, because we never stopped speaking to one another, on the phone and in letters.
We made it through lay-offs and unemployment due to your ingenuity and frugality. I learned how to use a whole chicken, and how to feed a family of six on two dollars a meal.
I am red-faced remembering how I called you lazy, in regards to your predilection for long afternoons with the television and a bag of potato chips. Of course, now I know that is ridiculous ,remembering endless days in the hot summer garden, producing some of the best tomatoes I have ever had. There were weeks in the late summer and fall, making delicious jams and jellies, tomato sauce, pickles, and homemade sauerkraut. You rarely let me help you in the kitchen, which made me want to be in there even moreso.
When you were on chemotherapy, you let me cook for you the few foods that you could handle. It was an honor. After you died, I found piles of notepads in your desk full of prayer requests. We were all there, as were church members, family ,and virtual strangers. You were a prayer warrior, and I thank you for that.
What I remember the most is your laugh ringing out. You never held back a laugh as I have been known to do, or covered your mouth with your hand. You talked and laughed and ate and hugged like no one else, then or now.
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