Mommy's Son
My Mother has been the cause and inspiration of many of my writings.
For her last birthday my niece solicited stories and poems about her
to include in a large scrapbook affair. I had 17 pieces to contribute
to blend with about 80 more from my 6 siblings and 12 grandchildren.
This was original for the book.
faucon
.................................................
OTHER MOTHER
It is easy to remember -- to be again -- know my mother;
as a mother -- close by
tears -- hope -- a message gentle,
as a friend -- now medium far
quiet chats -- faith reborn -- she listens still.
as a person -- there's the wonder
still a girl -- hummm…
I can reconstruct the moment -- beyond recalling,
more than a childish whim or mem'ried diffusion
of jumbled thoughts and storybook illusions --
I was there, after all.
Lake Tahoe -- summer days -- 1953;
wood cabins -- jays and chipmunks,
Mt. Talac snow cross -- stories on the beach,
three kids -- one mom -- wait an hour,
don't run -- water clear -- so clear,
sigh! Mother was just there --
which was right.
Morning walks up the mountains -- often;
old deep trails -- new long needled pathways,
giant granite boulders -- hidden springs,
flickering sunlight -- swaying ferns,
just fun and play and toss and tumble --
then I noticed her -- the girl.
She sat atop a rock alone -- content that we were safe;
hair let down -- the brush was there beside'
shorts -- blouse ends tied across her waist,
sandals tossed aside -- one slipping to the ground,
humming -- no singing low -- Steven Foster --
she was doing her nails.
For the first time I saw her as a person;
not a mother or a woman or a teacher or --
where had she been -- why hadn't I seen,
this young person alive -- dreaming -- just there,
content to be just a person -- just once again,
but still only my mother.
posted by Anonymous @ 6:07 PM
3 comments
3 Comments:
This is beautiful faucon - lovely memories, especially the knowing of that moment when you first knew your mother as a person and found you loved the person too.
(I walk into) “my mother's house, and into the room of her who conceived me” Solomon’s Song
When I write about my Mother’s house, my Mother’s room, my Mother
I don’t write of her sensual sexuality or
the primordial union she shared with my Father.
I don’t write of the lust, the tender passion that
Propelled sperm, like a heat missile
into her uterus
seeking the egg that would become ME
"For the first time I saw her as a person; not a mother or a woman or a teacher..." As a mother, a woman, a teacher the greatest joy would be for my son to see me, before else as a person who lived and loved.
I too would wish my children to see me young and too lament that I had known my mother so much longer as mother, widow, confessor, mentor than as the young wife who called my father, "lover" as he did her.
Faucon, I thank you for bringing this and Heather, I hope you make a poem of this for your mother and for your daughter.
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