Mom works the pedal of the Singer,
driving the needle through
crisp rose-colored taffeta.
As she sews we make small talk,
she smiling at her pesky Chatty Kathy
while I, with deepest intention,
thread myself
into the eye of her life.
Mom works the pedal of the Singer,
driving the needle through
crisp rose-colored taffeta.
As she sews we make small talk,
she smiling at her pesky Chatty Kathy
while I, with deepest intention,
thread myself
into the eye of her life.
Home again… arising early
I wander through my parents’ house
in search of memories.
In the pantry are the small clear glasses
hand-painted with tulips.
Instinctively I lift one to my lips,
almost tasting the Seven-up my grandfather
used to pour, remembering how the fizz
tickled my nose, grandpa’s laughter.
I imagine him standing there wearing
his felt hat and checkered flannel shirt,
puffing on his long stemmed pipe.
But too soon, the image fades, as set in the past
as the tulips are in their glass prisons.
From a dusty shelf in the den I retrieve
the old Currier and Ives, copyrighted 1952.
Through its pages I’d traveled America,
journeying by steamboat down the
Mississippi, flat boating the Ohio River,
riding the rail to California. Always
enjoying my imaginative adventures,
always thirsting for more.
Wistfully I close the book, leaving its
people and places, now slightly faded,
to a future wanderer.
Photographs crowd the living room,
each one caressing a memory-my birth,
birthdays, school days, first date…
every event cascading for eternity in
wood and glass.
The floorboard creaks as my mother
enters the kitchen. I hasten to greet her
blinking back the tears. Our eyes meet
and we smile, scattering the memories
amongst a million dreams, the air
shimmering with the essence of their
beauty as they surrender, each one
to its designated place.
In the photo my mother is beautiful.
Though it is in black and white,
I picture her cheeks to be rosy as pink Chablis.
Her hair cascades thick and wavy
to meet the soft slant of her shoulders,
covered demurely in a dark dress
I imagine, a shade of red.
She is smiling coyly for the camera,
as if she is the keeper of some secret,
about to spring a surprise.
The couch she sits on is smattered with
clusters of tiny white blossoms.
Behind her, the wallpaper is enmeshed
in huge leaves pointing skyward;
between each two leaves is a single flower.
The floor’s linoleum is a characteristic nineteen fifties pattern
of multicolored and sized diagonal stripes.
In the photo my mother is a constant,
in surroundings I can only describe as busy,
and so she has been for most of her life.
The photo was taken after mine and my older sister’s birth,
before those of our siblings.
It was long before school days, dating, marriages,
children, divorces, grandchildren,
and all forms of crises imagined or real
which have transformed her once vibrant brown hair to gray,
strand by strand.
Long before wrinkles claimed her face,
Arthritis wreaked havoc on her joints,
Osteoporosis settled in her bones.
In the photo my mother is beautiful.
She is poor but happy,
innocent and trusting,
hinging on a promise,
glimmering with love.