To My Mother

Who lost her own when she was young

       Young darling, sweet fragile-looking imp with thin arms and legs and the face of an angel, you were blessed with your dad's nose and your mother's energetic ability to achieve.  You played freely in her garden of dreams, among the flowers she planted so extravagantly that groups of visitors came to stare.  Your dad's practical voice came raining down like bad weather to ruin the day, saying, "You can't eat flowers!", but your mother loved them anyway, and tucked a thousand seeds under the fertile soil so she could see all of God's palette.  She wandered awhile among the summer blooms, and then she went away.

 

       Today you step aside to think of her again.  The big brown bowl and old wire whisk remind you of who she was.  And I have seen her there in you, as you fold the flour and sugar into batter for tart jelly rolls or angel-food cakes.  The heavy stoneware bowl seems solid and strong, like she was, like you are.  But the wire whisk is full of loops and twists, holding nothing but air.  You learned of life and death at age thirteen.

 

       The letter you showed me was like a vision:  I see you sitting there beside her bed where she is fighting her pain, too weak to write.  Your small schoolgirl hand grips the yellow pencil hard, as if to hold her there a few more years.  And now the letter in your hands has carried her to me, and I want to sob big wracking sobs for her dying so young.  

 

       For a moment we let the truth inside, but our eyes only filled to the brim, then we dammed the flow to pretend we are strong.  And you are, you carry hope in the face of death, you fight to give others courage.  What she gave you was like her vision of the angels, one dark and one light, struggling in the air above the bed of her patient.  She believed, and she left you a legacy. 

 

       Maybe when she died you were like the stoneware bowl, holding it all inside, or maybe you were like the wire whisk, letting it all pass through you naturally, playing on through the days as usual because that's what kids do.  I never knew her except through you, and sometimes when you said I looked like her I would stand in front of her picture wondering if I, too, would see an angel someday, or perhaps die young.  

Author's Note

I wrote this years ago after reading a letter from my grandmother. She was too weak to write, so the letter was actually written by my mother (then thirteen years old).

Reviews

[Lauren Marie]

(First review in a year, hope you don't mind!)
What a sad tale!
I loved the analogies and emotions in this piece.
This was a wonderful read!
~Lauren

[Thomas James Martin]

This is a wonderful piece of writing. The imagery is so relevant to the experiences and so original as is the expressive feeling. I loved the analogy of the bowl and the whisk very much also.

Hope your are doing well; dropping in on a few friends with whom I have had no contact for a while.

Tom

[Winter McPherson]

This is really special. What an incredible piece! The beauty of your words and the strong emotions displayed are eloquent. I loved the return to the stoneware bowl and wire whisk as an analogy. Beautifully done!

[mysticgmekeepr]

Wow, you held me spellbound with your tale of geneology, life and death, miracles and memories.
Makes me wonder was I like a stoneware bowl or a wire whisk when faced with similar experiences

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You are a portrait of wisdom and solidity. I suspect that I would like you immensely.