My Mother Was My Mama

The way we talk about people who have died is depressing, it's as if everything they once did and were is now secondary to their death. "She is my mother" to "She was my mother".

My mother was a gardener, you could see it on her hands,

The dirt beneath her fingers following commands.

And when she worked she blossomed, a flower in disguise,

The most beautiful of lilacs, reaching for the sky.

My mother was a cook too, I won’t forget the way,

Her wonderful potatoes always made my day.

The lighting made her hair glow, the sizzle like a song,

When I’d hear that tune I’d know, dinner wasn’t far along.

And she was an artist, on the level of Monet,

She didn't use a brush, but a needle, felt, or clay.

Da Vinci and Van Gogh, though I know it isn’t wise,

My mother’s art would pass theirs, always, in my eyes.

My mother was my mama, I just can’t say enough

To tell you what a wonder that she truly was.

She danced and laughed and gave me love, that I still carry with me now

I don’t think I’ll stop missing her, I really don’t know how.

My mother was a gardener, but now she is just dead.

Her nimble fingers work no more, and won’t for springs ahead.

I’ll have to plant her flowers, her tulips, white and red,

And try to grow a garden that isn’t full of dread.

My mother was a cook too, but now she is just dead.

I won’t ever taste her meals again, no pasta, cake, or bread.

It’s left to me to cook my food, I have to try my hand,

But no matter what I do, it always ends up bland.

And she was an artist, but now she is just dead.

Her fabrics will not know a life, no matter how they beg.

I’ve made my own stuffed bunnies, I named them Joe and Craig

Though I rightly love them, they just aren’t quite as grand.

My mother was my mama, but now she is just dead,

Today when someone asks of her, death is all that's said.

When people try to sum her up, whatever they intend,

Without fail, every time, they’ll start at the end.

Reviews

[Thomas W Case]

Powerful tribute. Great work.