Up there

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

All our mistrals

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

Gleaning

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

A nice change

(2015)

She had always lived there
Her father’s house and garden
Her mother’s scent of carnations
And chicken and dumplings in a pot

Once she said to her mother
I have to go soon
A man has offered me a ranch
and a dozen cows on a hilltop

But you are a vegetarian
Yes but he makes me smile
And the cows bring me peace.
I will set up my easel in the meadow

She painted fantastic visions
of oceans she would never see
and skies higher than the atmosphere
full of stars and comets

One day her mother showed up
Suitcase in hand
announcing that peace
would be a nice change of pace

That evening when she came in
Wet painting leaning against the apple tree
They ate, remarking
Those were the best dumplings ever.

Spaghetti days

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.