That women can run for office and win.
That a song is a great way to wake a child.
That, in fact, there is a song for every
moment of the day, from packing a picnic,
to washing your hair, to saying yes when
you ought to say no.
That scrambled egg sandwiches
are a fast and easy meal
and fresh herbs make everything taste better.
That it’s worth staying up way too late
if it means you can get to the last page
of your book.
To write handwritten thank you letters
for just about everything.
To make your bed every morning.
That my body is not a machine
and it matters that I care for it.
That it’s nice to have just the right glass
for drinking water or wine or tea.
She taught me to learn new games,
to make new friends, to try new foods,
to enjoy growing old.
That it matters to say grace
every time you sit to eat.
That no matter how different our values, our votes,
there is always a foundation for love.
That if I lived a thousand lifetimes,
in every one, I would choose her as a mom.
Posts Tagged ‘mom’
Things I Learned from My Mother
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged mom, mother's day on May 9, 2026| 8 Comments »
Home Away
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, generosity, home, light, mom, travel on November 14, 2025| 4 Comments »
In a city where we meet,
mom arrives with thin
rye crackers, dill Havarti,
carrots, fresh raspberries,
a tea kettle, and packets
of peppermint tea—all
things she knows I love.
And sipping right now from
the slender, porcelain
pansy mug she wrapped in
clothes and brought in her suitcase,
I listen in the dark of the hotel
to the soft, even luff of her breath
as she sleeps, and inside it
I hear the light of her, the
generous light, the tender light,
a nectary of light, a clear channel
of light that teaches me something
of how to live in these long, cold
volumes of night.
Matriarch
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birds, family, love, mom on November 17, 2024| Leave a Comment »
From the hallway, I hear her
growl her disappointment
when my nephew’s football team
fumbles the ball. And by the time
I enter the door to find her
riveted to the livestream,
she’s squealing, whooping,
calling out his name,
her voice a bright wing
that careens through the room,
a raven let loose from a cage,
and I can’t help but fall
more in love with my mother
who crows with wild, unparalleled joy,
a noisy, exuberant ecstasy,
and I realize I am sky—
as if the wings of her love
shape the terrain where they fly.
She cheers louder for my nephew;
that love makes the space inside me
even more vast, even more beautiful.
Preserving Sweetness
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apples, intention, legacy, memory, mom on June 27, 2024| 13 Comments »
The whole house smelled
of ripening then the day mom
made apples into sauce.
The heat from the stove
made the small kitchen
swelter, and the autumn air
almost shined with the bright
scent of Jonathan, Pippin,
Winesap, Cortland.
Her arms were strong then,
straining to push the blushing
pink mash through the sieve,
slow and stiff with the effort.
Perhaps there is a language
somewhere that has a word
for this: the way something sweet
can linger, how it flows over,
around and through the body
like the cidery scent of apples
till it lodges itself in the memory.
Oh Mama, I want to serve this
sweetness to you now,
the memory of you stirring
with two good, strong arms,
the way you put all of who you were
into the smallest of acts,
how fifty years later,
what you did that one afternoon
still matters.
Legacy
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, love, mom, mother's day on May 11, 2024| 10 Comments »
Far away my mother
reaches across the bed
for my father’s hand
that isn’t there. Still,
she says, she almost
feels it, just as I almost,
even now, feel her hand
rubbing the gentle pad
of her thumb across
my own thumbnail.
Perhaps someday
when I am gone,
my daughter, too,
will almost feel a whisper
of a kiss on her brow
that reminds her how
I kiss her tonight,
as always, with my lips
pressed to that place
just above her eyes
as I murmur that I love her.
Perhaps it will surprise
her how real it still feels,
the words no longer audible,
but I hope by then
she will know them by heart.
One While Flying Away from My Mom
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, mom, mortality, sunset on March 26, 2024| 4 Comments »
longing to love you forever
I watch the sun go down
desperately red
Lessons from a Small Bush
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged enough, joy, mom, mother, quince, sufficiency on March 25, 2024| 6 Comments »
Because it brings her enormous joy,
this pink-petalled flowering quince
that grows just outside
my mother’s back door,
I long to give her a thousand
such quince bushes,
all of them long-blooming,
voluptuous, thornless,
all of them lining her walk.
Though the other part of me
wants to honor how
it takes only one plant
to bring her such elation.
I am instantly stunned
with the wisdom of enoughness,
astonished again at how praise
needs nothing more than a crumb.
Somehow letting go of a thousand
imaginary quince bushes floods me
with a emptiness so great
I fall more wildly in love
with a single pink flower
and the luck-drunk awe of my mother.
Cleaning Mom’s Blue Glass, I Think of My Son
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cleaning, daughter, grief, mom, wound on March 23, 2024| 9 Comments »
Barefoot, I balanced
on mom’s counters
and I handed her
the blue glass
plates and vases
from the highest shelf.
They were dusty,
as all things are
when unused. Now
they shine, draw
the eye upward,
bring beauty to the room.
It makes me wonder
what parts of my life
I have not touched
for too long—
like that wound today
I brushed so tenderly
with my thoughts.
What was dust
now gleams this evening,
has become the only thing
my eyes can see.
And though I might
avoid it if I could,
somehow the wound
makes everything around it
all the more lovely,
as luminous as newly
polished blue glass,
as shimmering as any tear.
One Reunion with My Mom
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, driving, mom on March 22, 2024| 2 Comments »
while going seventy
we make of the car
a sanctuary
Make Over
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, daughter, mom, quiet on January 4, 2024| 8 Comments »
Mom and I apply the thin film
of the facial masks,
mine pomegranate, hers cherry,
and I laugh at our images in the mirror,
the strange pearly gel sticking to our skin.
We find a sunny spot in the room
and for twenty minutes we lie there,
eyes closed, holding hands.
The package claims my skin will become
more hydrated, softer.
In truth, all of me is softer
as I give in to the slowness,
give in to the quiet, give in
to low warm light and let myself
be wholly here with my mom
as the masks make us look ridiculous
and the whole rest of the world
more beautiful.
One with Notes of Cherry
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged glasses, mom, wine on November 14, 2023| 8 Comments »
untouched for a month
empty wineglasses dream
of toasting her return
*
Dear Friends,
This very small poem celebrates my mom’s birthday! A quick update–she has been in skilled nursing for a couple weeks now, and it looks as if she can go home in another week or so. What a long, curve-ball-ish, difficult path. I so appreciate all your thoughts and prayers for her and for me as she navigated the
ICU and hospital …
Also, this poem is a very small nod to some fun news … I have several times submitted to the Judd’s Hill Poetry contest, which caught my eye back in 2016 because the prize is a double magnum of cab! And the contest is for poems written about wine. This year, I won! With a poem about mom’s wine glasses … You can read about the amazing vineyard (I am so moved by their values and how they interact with their community) and the wine poetry contest here, and read the winners from the last many years … I don’t think my poem is up yet, but here it is, below, with a smile for mom. Happy Birthday, Mom!!! I have never been so glad you are having a birthday!!
While Unpacking Giant Wine Goblets
At first, I wish my mother
would consider giving them away—
her new apartment is shy on cupboard space.
How many wine glasses do you need?
I ask, trying to sound reasonable.
She responds by saying,
But they’re for red wine,
as if that explains it—
as if of course, she needs eight
beautiful globe-shaped glasses
for serving pinot noir and merlot.
And they’re so hard to find
in this exact shape, she adds,
clearly pleased with these glasses
she has transferred
from home to home to home.
And so, I think, of course,
she needs these glasses
round as grapefruits, clear
as happiness. I imagine her
sipping a fruity red with easy-drinking
tannins and a super-soft finish.
I imagine the smile on her face
as she sips from the larger goblet
designed so the wine can contact
more air and thus open up
so its cherry and raspberry notes
shine through. I imagine the smile
on her face—and I slide
the glasses onto the shelf
and move on to the china,
the measuring cups, the spoons.
The Words I Want to Embroider into Her Hospital Gown
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged compassion, geese, hospital, illness, mom, nurse, vulnerability on October 20, 2023| 15 Comments »
Thank you for helping her meet
this day, this night.
Though she needs you now
just to take a sip of water,
she was once a volunteer firefighter.
If you were grieving, she would
bake you sweet bread.
If you were struggling,
she would leave a gift at your door
with a kind letter but no name.
Thank you for being the one
who arrives to help this woman
who always rises to help another.
This is the way we guide each other,
like the geese who change leaders
at the apex of the V when one gets tired
or sick. Thank you for flying ahead today.
The distance we must go is long.
Day Seven ICU
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged healing, icu, massage, miracle, mom, touch on October 18, 2023| 21 Comments »
She lets me rub oil into her skin,
massaging it slowly into her feet
till they’re supple and warm
and the skin almost shines,
swelling gone.
She sighs in pleasure
instead of pain.
The room smells of lavender.
Lanky afternoon light
lopes through the slats
to replace the fluorescence
of the ICU.
It’s quiet.
No nurse. No doctor.
No beep to alert us her oxygen is low.
How seldom I let myself
move this slow.
I smooth her arches,
slip my fingers through her toes.
We play this little piggy goes home,
and this little piggy goes home,
and this little piggy and this little piggy
and this little piggy go whee whee whee
all the way home.
Is it strange I love this moment
in a place neither of us wants to be.
The business outside this room
will last forever.
And here we are, so alive
we slip right into the miracle.
*
Dear Friends,
thank you again for all the support, all the kind notes, all the prayers and love and healing energy. I can’t respond to them, but I read them all and let them go in … all the way in. I read mom a bunch of the notes today–and they warmed her, too. In the ICU, it seems time goes fast and healing goes slow. Mom’s improving, at last. I see a path out, albeit a long one. Wishing you all deep peace and ease in your own bodies.
Anastomosis
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged connection, daughter, healing, hospital, mom on October 17, 2023| 15 Comments »
It means “connection between two passageways.”
It means “place where two rivers meet.”
It means, “here is where necrotized intestine
can be cut away and a woman can be healed.”
It means, “seam where sepsis might begin
through the tiniest of micro perforations.”
It means, “my mother endured such pain.”
It’s so fine, the line between healing and crisis.
So elusive, the word that means
“I know my own life because it’s connected with hers.”
And I, who never before
had even heard of anastomosis,
I, who even yesterday could not spell
nor pronounce it,
I now know too well the five-syllable word
that means “fallible healer,” “essential danger,”
this word that describes the very place
where a life might be saved,
then nearly lost, then saved again.
Another Night in the ICU
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged caregiving, gentleness, hospital, icu, mom, nurse on October 16, 2023| 22 Comments »
for Ally
So tenderly, the night nurse lifts
the blankets from my mother’s limbs
and notes the drainage—
its serosanguinous color, its volume.
She checks mom’s vitals and does
whatever she does with all those plastic tubes
that now tether my mother to her life.
How quietly she moves, like a wraith,
she whispers, as if she’s a wisp,
something insubstantial, a midnight trace.
Yet the gift of her work is great
in this moment when all depends on care.
I marvel at her gentleness, her humanness,
her kindness as she works
and my mother’s chest rises and falls,
rises and falls in hard-won sleep.
Like a killdeer, able to make a nest
in bare soil, gravel, even a paved parking lot,
the night nurse makes of this sterile room
a soft-enough place, a place where my mother
can be safe. Like a mother killdeer,
the night nurse stays close to the room,
her eyes and ears trained for danger.
She’s tracking everything,
determined that all will be well tonight.
*
Dear friends,
wow, thank you for the generous outpouring of love, prayers and well wishes for my mother and for me. I read every single one and thanked everyone out loud by name, and I am sad I won’t be able to respond individually to you, but please know how your kind words and good thoughts are carrying me and Mom. I have a deep abiding peace, despite the new curveballs the day brought. She had another (third) surgery today, and I hope and pray this will be the last and she can now rest and recover. She’s been in the hospital since Oct. 6. She’s had an intestinal surgery, a cardiac event, sepsis, a vascular surgery for lack of blood flow in her arm, an ulcer in her duodenum, dangerously low blood pressure, and today a third surgery to repair perforations that occurred at the point of the original surgery. Amidst all this she is a marvel of positivity, resilience, and kindness.
And as I said last night, thank you to all who care for those who need healing. I am so so so so grateful.
The Humming
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged healing, home, icu, mom, song on October 15, 2023| 26 Comments »
And there in the ICU, amidst the tubes
and rubber gloves, amongst the pillows
and the scent of disinfectant,
we build a house of song,
a house with rafters of “Moon River”
and a foundation of “Amazing Grace.”
There are lintels of “Wild Mountain Thyme”
and a hearth of “The Water is Wide,”
For an hour, we live inside the tunes
as they surround us, familiar rooms
where laughter is welcome,
where sleep might come,
where we live not outside of time,
but inside its melodic chambers,
not escaping the fear and the pain,
but companioning it with so much love,
so much beauty that somehow,
even in the halls of distress,
we nestle deeper in and feel safe.
*
Hi friends–oh my sweet mama is having a tough time–multiple surgeries, so many side swipes. It’s been a crazy time. At this moment, she seems to be stabilizing. Tonight I am so grateful for everyone who works in the medical professions–from those who leave home in the middle of the night to do emergency surgeries to those who keep the hospital floors clean–thank you to all who help those who need healing.
December 17, 2022
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Christmas, fragile, life, love, mom on December 18, 2022| 9 Comments »
Mom makes the chocolates
while I chop nuts and make dough—
we listen to carols and sing along
as we have since before I remember.
The kitchen smells of mint and sugar
and I try to press the memory
between the pages of the day.
Perhaps it is a blessing
to know how fragile it is, this life.
I let myself fall all the way into the moment,
the sun long gone, but the house
still pulsing with love, still warm.
When Mom Suggests I Could Rest My Head in Her Lap
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fish, memory, mom, rest, time on December 14, 2022| 8 Comments »
I resist. There is so much to do,
but soon my eyes are closed
and Mom is pulling her fingers
through my hair the way I love
and I am ten again, or four,
or twenty-five, or two,
lying on the plaid couch
in our old house
with my head in Mom’s lap,
her fingers in my hair.
I wake up drenched in forever,
this timeless stream
I sometimes can see for what it is—
like a fish that leaps for a fly
and sees, oh! an infinite world
beyond the world it knows.
Is it any wonder, this water
clinging to my cheek
as I rise from the couch
and swim back into the night.