I did some work for a friend in Crown Heights today, and riding the bus back from St. Marks Avenue I saw an interesting thing. Somewhere right before Fulton Street a very pretty late-middle aged woman got on the bus. She was African-American, and well dressed in slacks and a light sweater. Her steel grey hair was done in a tasteful bob. As she inserted her Metro card into the card reader she announced to the passengers:
“Happy mother’s day, ladies.” Some of the African-American women nodded in response, a few said, “same to you.” I smiled at this wonderful display of community. I doubt any white woman or Latino woman would have done the same. It was a nice moment I’ll never forget.
I wrote a poem for my mom a few years ago, on a mother’s day, of course, but I’ve only showed it to Danusia, since she is included in the poem and she never has anything bad to say about my writing. I’m not much of a poet, but I have to say this one is heartfelt, and none too shabby.
I was going to post it on this blog last month, in honor of national poetry month, but Danusia said I should save it for mother’s day, so here it is:
A Prayer For Maria Remedios
I’d run
From here to Mexico
If I thought that I could
Speak to you once more,
Or at least see you
In repose,
Like the last time I saw you,
So many years ago.
Today we lit two candles,
She and I,
One for you,
One for her Mamushka,
Also gone many years.
We sat in the morning sun,
In our parlor,
And read from the Daily word-
About no expiration dates,
And such for mothers,
Which is true-
As all you ever taught me
Remains in place
To this day.
I can not recall you
Telling me you loved me,
Things like that just weren’t said-
In our home.
But I felt you did,
More than the others,
I suspect.
I see the old man sometimes,
I called him Viejo,
For some time,
But I’ve returned to Papa.
Frail and old,
In his small world of bitter resignation.
Though he never speaks of you,
I can tell you this-
He seemed lost without you, and visited
Your grave every chance he could,
Something I’ve never done.
It has taken me thirty-one years
To ask my brother where
You are buried,
Perhaps I will go this summer.
Mama,
I have not cried,
The way I cried,
The day they put you
In the ground,
And I’ve cried plenty since.
It’s taken that long to
Acknowledge that you are gone,
That you will never hear my sullen,
Petulant voice again.
I learned a great many things from you, Mama,
Some good, some bad,
But the best thing you taught me
Is kindness,
And I am be happy to tell you
That you passed it on
To your Grandson, my boy,
Who is kind too.
My Mother was a nun for the first part of her adult life, and here is a picture to prove it.
This is one of the last pictures of my mom; she died in 1977 at the age of 53. My sister is on the left and my first girlfriend Anna is on the right. Happy mother’s day, ladies.
Beautiful Xavier. My eyes are welled up and my throat too. My mother lived a long life but it still feels like she died too soon.
Write more poems.
Julie
is that you and her in the first picture. Gorgeous !
Thanks, Julie.
Just wrote a poem that your poem inspired. Thank YOU for that
here it is:
Mother’s Day, 2014
My Mother’s Bedspread
Julie Cahn
Today I unfolded the bedspread you had on your bed in Amagansett
And put it on my bed
I carefully spread it out, ironing out the wrinkles with my hands,
Turning the hospital corners like you taught me
And like I always do
As if that is the only way to do it,
There is no smell of you
Left in it
I sniff twice and hard
For it
I remember an argument we had once,
Almost 30 years ago,
You insisted I cover my mattress,
For the paint job
and I insisted
That there must be another way,
Not always your way
How many years did it take me to realize you were right
About most things,
Or that you knew me like no one else did,
Even the things we never talked about
I know you understood
Even when your mind in later years
Was warped and twisted by
A merciless illness,
You still knew
Only if I could have,
In right mind,
Opened my heart to you
With the confidence that you would
Have stroked it,
Without judgment,
Without suggestions,
Without sadness
For what you knew you could not change
But wish you could
Now I take comfort under your bedspread
Remembering how you
Lay under it
Once too.
Nice. I’m glad you were inspired!
It’s just beautiful, Xavier. And yours is, too, Julie!
Thanks, Linda!