Ode to my Mother

Maybe it’s her milk and honey skin

which doesn’t quite match mine

that makes me stare more intently at her

while she washes dishes

or does ordinary things

with such grace.

She talks softly but firmly

awaiting no one and yet simply

fawning over everyone.

I like to watch as she

fumbles with the stool

she uses when she stands at the stove

cooking vegetables so that she can

at least tower over something

tools firmly in hand

and always forgetting an ingredient

here or there.

I can’t fathom what

life might look like without her

treading water as I do

without reprieve to a ledge.

She had three children

had to snip three umbilical cords

all one year apart

how she ever could have managed

is beyond me

all vying for her attention

and somehow always receiving it.

My mother came home one evening

to find that my siblings had

cut my hair while under my dad’s watch

boy was she angry

but I guess it was better

than when she found us

playing house in the fireplace soot.

When my mind eventually became too fast

to ignore

she taught me how to crochet

nothing elaborate

but something to calm the nerves

and occupy the time, she said.

And now

so many years later

my sister has a blanket for

my niece and nephew

wrapping them up

with love and a familiar warmth

from hands that could only

desire a nurturing heart

and to have something to keep them

company at night.

During childhood

we were a part of the

have-nots

even though I never recognized it

at the time.

Never knew what the word poor meant

nor succumbed to any displeasure

when turned down from

the ice-cream man.

It was all we knew at the time.

She sewed her own wedding dress

understated and elegant as it was

maybe something a little more special

and alluring

than one that could be purchased.

Long satin and flowery lace

cut with such care and precision

that one could only wonder

and take heart when looking

at the pictures of her on that day.

My sister and I would play dress up in it

cooing in delight to think of

our future lives

that could all begin with a dress.

My mother once made

the entire twelve days of Christmas

out of folded cut-out paper

like those snowflakes you would

make as a child

but with all the lords a-leaping

and drummers drumming

meticulously

intentionally scissoring through the folded paper

by hand.

It took her multiple pairs of scissors

and two Christmases to finish.

I asked her where the artwork might be

these days

and she said it was likely thrown away

some time ago

like all the other cherished memories

that eventually get tossed aside

or crushed under old luggage

that was never fully unpacked.

My mother made our lives

out of her own imagination

fostering our endeavours

with as much vigour as

could be mustered

with what we had available.

My sister and I

were fiercely into gymnastics

which was expensive enough

just to join.

My mother toiled away

at sewing our own gym suits

cutting out homemade patterns

from old computer paper

so that we wouldn’t feel left out

when the other girls

got fancy-coloured crushed velvet leotards

or matching hair ties.

We always had little quirks

but they were ours

and we hardly ever skipped a beat.

Saturdays were filled with

excitement and anticipation

when my mother

and her mother

would cut out the

garage sale listings from

the local newspaper

she would tape them onto the

glove compartment

in the old Buick

bring out the old folded map

and go treasure-hunting

finding old trumpets for a few bucks

always books

and other knick-knacks

that we couldn’t possibly need.

My hardest excuse

was hiding those parts of myself

from my mother when

I was ashamed

I thought she would hate me

and scold me for my own

self-punishment

though she would only adorn

my shamefulness with something

resembling trust

trust that I would grasp my own decisions

and fall as I might to learn my own lessons.

My childhood was

surrounded by the cut-out paper hearts

that I would paste on Mother’s Day cards

and awash with the instinctive knowledge

that I was loved, for lack of a better word, in return.

Don’t think that I don’t know

the resilience that my mother passed along to me

clipping coupons

and always saying ‘goodbye’ at least

four times before she hangs up the telephone.

She taught me

growing was more than physical

but something

like her garden

where she carefully snipped the pretty tulips

so that we could make flower arrangements.

She would never leave the house

without her measuring tape and shears

in case the inspiration came

and transported her to a new idea.

Our home-gown bowl cuts

courtesy of my mother

still make us laugh

when we look through old

picture albums

though I imagine

that just seeing the strange looks

on our faces

seeing our younger versions

gives us pause and strength

when we remember back

to those days

where nothing but the

cherry tree in the backyard

would fill our tummies

and we were still

unabashedly happy.