Mother's Day...

Mother's Day is a holiday about mixed feelings for me. On the happy side I am very blessed to still have my Mom even if she lives over 1400 miles away. Until two years ago when my parents moved, I had never lived more than 225 miles from them. Okay, I know. I'm a big spoiled baby. On the not so happy side my Grammy (Mom's mother) passed away July of 1994.

Mother's Day weekend of '94 was hard. For the first time in her 21 year history of multiple strokes, my Grammy didn't recognize any of her loved ones. Over the previously mentioned 21 year history, my Grammy had an estimated 12 major strokes and 1,000 TIA's (mini-strokes). She had to learn how to walk, talk, write, eat, and speak all over again many, many times. But at no time did she ever forget who anyone was. We knew that weekend that this was the beginning of the end. As you can imagine it was not a very happy Mother's Day. And every one since then has been full of mixed feelings.

In honor of the woman that helped raise me, I'm pulling this poem out of the vault. I wrote this in September of 2000. Actually I wrote two poems that day. It was hours before dawn on my Mom's birthday and I was contemplating how she would make it through yet another birthday without her mother. I was also avoiding sleep due to a dream I'd had of my Grammy the previous night.

If anyone's interested I'll probably post the other poem tomorrow. In any case here's the first one.




her

i saw a woman the other day
with her hair colour
you know the one that
miss clairol makes
and i had this urge to
colour my hair that shade
so she would be with me
each and every day
but my eyes are all wrong
hers were brown
and mine are gray
i guess the hair colour
doesn’t really matter
besides a million things
every day
make me think of her
the smell of coffee brewing
the sound of christmas carols
the taste of peanut butter
the feel of her blue blanket
the last thing she ever touched
before she died
except for me
i just wish she had known me
those last months
i waited every day
for some sort of spark
or that light in her eyes
she always had for me
or the way she had
of calling me ‘baby’
that never bothered me
even though i hadn’t been one
for far too many years
but up until her last moment
i was a stranger
i would cry in the kitchen
so she couldn’t see
and worry
i only smiled in front of her
as i put her medicines
through her feeding tube
changed her sheets
bathed her tired body
rubbed lotion on her fragile skin
and brushed her gray hair
that was once that colour
you know the one that
miss clairol makes