Ode to Mama

Oh, sweet Mama of my heart!

I remember the wisps of silvery hair,

and the distraction in your gaze.

I could so rarely talk with you.

You could so rarely listen.

I loved you none the less--

I loved you all the more.

I remember the flowery cotton dresses that you wore.

How could one forget such simple, singular creativity?

You sewed them in the back bedroom on your Singer sewing machine with Janice saying, "Mama! Clean the bobbin casing!"

I remember the way you smeared

color on your lips--you just stuck the "stick" between them and whisked it across--and laughed at yourself

when the tip of the tube broke off.

I smile again, wistfully, picturing you so vividly...

But most of all you broke my heart,

beloved Mama, by giving to me

the perfect gift--but only always. And I--

I could not hear your cry of pain.

Mama, I've lost the art of making biscuits.

And oh, the cakes! The pies were objets d' art.

How didst thou achieve

this perfection of convection?

Your recipes were in your hands!

Dear sweet Mama,

you had so many cares.

Would that I could have lifted them from you.

June 24, 1986