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.
If 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
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