Mother's Day

I wrote this poem for my mom several years ago. I was reading it today, thinking about her, wondering, again, where in the heck is she? Then I looked at Jay, and I thought, well, there she is. I looked at the curio cabinet in my living room and saw this teeny, old teapot, one bitty cup and half a lid to an equally tiny sugar bowl (all that's left from her set from when she a child) and thought, there she is. I looked at these cool Asian pictures on my wall, ones that my dad brought home from some war, and remembered how, when she was early in her dementia, she would come over and take them off the walls and put them next to the door because "these are mine and I'm taking them home" and then by the time I'd take her back to The Peaks, she would have forgotten them, and damn, I thought, there she is. I thought of all those nameless things, how on Friday I gathered a bunch of canned food up and stuck them in a bag next to the mailbox because there was a postal food drive, and I did it because SHE would have done it. So, I kind of found her today, and although it's not the phone call I really wanted, it's enough.

Here's the poem, and even though I had it in an older blog, it seemed so right for my first Mother's Day without her.....

Care

I would stand in the circular drive
at McEachron elementary school, my hand splayed out
above my eyes, watching
for the Olds.
When it pulled up, I would struggle
with the heavy door against
the Kansas wind and settle my slight
ten year old self
on the burgundy velvet bench seat.
We were going to Bike’s
Burger Bar for thirteen cent hamburgers
while all the other kids sat
at the gray formica tables in the stark gymnasium,
eating beef-a-roni and drinking milk
from tiny red and white cartons.

Every other Friday at exactly noon
she came to get me;
the only one leaving school for lunch, the only one
having a Bike’s hamburger with french fries
and a pop. Sitting at the speckled table,
my mother would listen as I talked in-between bites;
she would ask questions,
and make sure I had enough ketchup.
I don’t know what we talked about; recess maybe,
a mean boy or how my cat, Tony,
could meow the loudest of all the cats.
And before she took me back
she would dip her napkin in the cold,
sharp ice water and wipe my face.

On Saturdays she would let me
polish the philodendrons with a cotton ball
and a plastic cup of milk and mayonnaise.
She would vacuum,
and iron sheets and handkerchiefs
while I knelt on the floor
and cleaned each soft green leaf.

Now we are walking down a sidewalk
where nothing is familiar
to her. Not the cars passing, not the house
where they have lived
for seventeen years, not even me. I think
that I would like her to take me to Bike’s Burger Bar
again, or mix the milk and mayonnaise
with an old tarnished spoon
and let me wash the leaves
for her. I would like to sit together
by the side of the house, planting marigolds
and petunias, dropping the pink, writhing earthworms
in a Folgers Coffee can; the scant grounds
of coffee left in the bottom
for food. I would like to go somewhere with her
and have her listen to me, and ask questions,
and make sure I have enough ketchup.

She will not ask any questions today.
But the hand that I hold is the one that once held
the damp napkin and washed the lunch from my face.
It is the one
that held the iron
and planted the marigolds, the one that
opened the Folgers and turned off the light
before I slept. As we keep walking, I settle
myself against her slight frame,
draping my arm across her shoulder,
and hold tight to the body, living.