The children grabbed each other by the hand and danced off in the direction of the merry-go-round, toward the wonderful music and the wonderful adventure and the wonderful excitement, into the wonderful midway where there would be no parents to guard them and guide them, and where they could be happy and free and do as they pleased. Mrs. Arable stood quietly and watched them go. Then she sighed. The she blew her nose.
It's a pretty typical scene. A mother watches her children skip off joyfully to a place where they are free to taste their independence for the first time. It's a difficult letting go for Mrs. Arable. It's an adventure for Fern and Avery.
Yes, I am a day late with this Mother's Day post, and I am sorry for that. I spent all day yesterday working on the poem for my brother's funeral, and time simply got away from me. So, I wish all the mothers reading this belated Mother's Day wishes.
I have a Classic Saint Marty from a Mother's Day a couple of years ago.
May 13, 2012: Mother's Day, New Poem, "Her Mother's Voice"
I'm stepping away from Scrooge and Charles Dickens today, in honor of
Mother's Day. I am going to share a poem I wrote
for this morning's church worship service. This poem is NOT the poem I
wrote for the mother/daughter dinner earlier this week. I will give you
that poem tomorrow afternoon.
My wife and daughter
sang a duet for special music this morning, as well. They sang "I Was
There to Hear Your Borning Cry." It's a sweet little hymn, almost a
lullaby. I tried to incorporate a portion of the hymn's title into the
poem, to tie them both together. I'm not sure if it was successful.
Plus, I started crying in the middle of reading the poem. I was a
mess. But my wife and daughter sang beautifully.
you're wondering what I did for my wife this maternal 24 hours, I will
tell you. This morning, I gave her a card. After church, I took her
out to lunch. Subway. Nothing fancy, but we ate together as a family.
Now, she's taking a nap before dinner.
Currently, I'm at my parents' house for a Mother's Day barbecue. Hot dogs. Bratwurst. Pound cake for dessert.
Saint Marty needs to go. The dogs are on the grill.
Her Mother's Voice
My wife, Beth, doesn't remember
Her mother's voice, how it rose
When her mother lifted diaphragm
In laugh, how it fell near the end
When breathing was hard as birth.
At night, Beth wonders if she'd recognize
Her mother's voice in a recording,
If it would be familiar as Doris Day
Crooning "Que Sera Sera,"
John Lennon gliding through "Imagine."
Or would it be scratchy, distant
As a wax cylinder. Jelly Roll Morton
Grinding out "Fat Meat and Greens."
When she was five, Beth sang with her mother
In church. She doesn't remember the song.
What she does remember: her mother's fingers
On the guitar strings, stained glass
Light on her mother's face. Beth remembers
Feeling like she was riding a bike
For the first time by herself,
Her mother receding, growing smaller, smaller.
She remembers this clearly, the way
She remembers the morning in the hospital
When she heard our daughter's borning cry.
Confessions of Saint Marty