In the middle of the night
mom finds me still awake
and makes us tea. We stand
in her bright kitchen and cradle
our steaming cups. How
the hands like something to do,
even at this quiet hour.
We talk through the scent
of licorice root and chamomile,
we talk with no phones or children,
chores or appointments to interrupt.
She is older than I think she is.
When I’m not with her, I see her
as the mother of my childhood,
her hair not yet gray, her spine
not yet bent. She is lovelier
than I think she is. I don’t
think of my mother as beautiful,
only as my mom. But here,
in this wrinkle of early hours,
she radiates, even as her chin
begins to quiver, even as she bites
her lower lip to stay the tears,
even as her tears miss the steeping tea,
she is radiant. Even as she collapses
her shoulders and laments little things
she can no longer do, she glows,
and I see her not only as my mother,
more fragile than I like to think,
but as someone so full of light, someone
I so very much want to know.
Lovely.
thank you, Anne, I just sent it to my mom …
May the circle be unbroken.
Thanks Debra … and on we go.
a serious cockle wobbler…. oh my.
such a resonance. and such a splendid-rich, opened-eye naming of radiant and glowing beauty, and of the different perspectives and perceptions we hold even for our beloveds.
wonder what vivian’s poem of you will be, thirtysome years hence? (especially since you already exhibit an inner strength and radiance that seeps outward through your pores and eyes.)
Very moving, especially as you begin the rumination of your childhood mother, and then the desperations of her present age woven into those.
One line that stops me a bit, perhaps only one word: line 12, the first time of say “she is older than I think she is”. My logical mind stops at that line, because you as daughter would know how old she is. She is older th an she appear? She appears older than I th ink she is? Something like that. When I get to the same versions of the line later, they seem find, not literal, but poetic. It’s that first time it strikes me as off a smidgen. Lovely poem, though.