Mother
Posted: Tue Sep 20, 2022 8:40 am
I know, I don't deserve a poem critique because I have been MIA pretty much since this site was founded. But I am asking anyway. My mother passed away, and we "kids" have been asked to write something to read at the graveside service this weekend. This is my poem for her. It needs help. I promise to return the critiquing as soon as the week is over. Thank you guys! (I don't know how to make the font bigger.)
Mother
You are smiling, happy, in every memory
I have of you – a woman who wakes
each day in-step with what comes her way.
Except that time in the kitchen
when I saw you grab your forehead
and wail. I thought you’d hit your head
on the open cabinet door, but it was more –
your oldest two teens were seen smoking cigarettes.
Mothers suffer in ways others of us never know.
But mostly I remember weekend calls –
when do I stir egg whites into spoonbread,
can I wear white shoes in the fall, would
green beans be okay to bring to the holiday
spread? You were pre-Google personified.
We chatted like girlfriends because, after all,
you were my best friend. The woman of eternal joy
cried cleaning my room when I left, like I did
when I learned. Like I did when you left.
I remember your answer to a friend’s question: No,
you had never once considered leaving Dad.
Who married among us can say that? Make-believe
Barbie and Ken? But you were relentlessly happy.
Late in life you lost your husband, and then
your oldest daughter. And then
your mind. Perhaps the world flashing
its sour side after seven decades of deceit
was more than you could abide. Still,
the memories you leave scattered among us
sparkle like winking stars in this long night sky.
Mother
You are smiling, happy, in every memory
I have of you – a woman who wakes
each day in-step with what comes her way.
Except that time in the kitchen
when I saw you grab your forehead
and wail. I thought you’d hit your head
on the open cabinet door, but it was more –
your oldest two teens were seen smoking cigarettes.
Mothers suffer in ways others of us never know.
But mostly I remember weekend calls –
when do I stir egg whites into spoonbread,
can I wear white shoes in the fall, would
green beans be okay to bring to the holiday
spread? You were pre-Google personified.
We chatted like girlfriends because, after all,
you were my best friend. The woman of eternal joy
cried cleaning my room when I left, like I did
when I learned. Like I did when you left.
I remember your answer to a friend’s question: No,
you had never once considered leaving Dad.
Who married among us can say that? Make-believe
Barbie and Ken? But you were relentlessly happy.
Late in life you lost your husband, and then
your oldest daughter. And then
your mind. Perhaps the world flashing
its sour side after seven decades of deceit
was more than you could abide. Still,
the memories you leave scattered among us
sparkle like winking stars in this long night sky.