on the phone with mom,
she reminds me gently
that she's hoping dad will take her out
this weekend ... and I remember.
"oh, that's right, you've got
a little birthday coming up"
"it's a big birthday" she says,
"they're piling up" and I quickly
do the math, realize in a few
more years, we'll celebrate
her 80th, kenahora.
it seems impossible --
when I see her in my mind's eye,
she is always young and beautiful
the way she was when I was
a little girl and even an adult myself:
always carrying herself elegantly,
always understated, her strongest emotion
bemusement, her most forceful reprove
knitted brows, a cautioning look.
how did she do it? how did she keep
three kids in line with only facial expressions?
I can cajole, threaten consequences,
try to persuade my son until I'm blue in the face
and it doesn't have the effect on him
that one raised eyebrow from her
could have on me at that age.
my friends who were spanked
were an object of pity to me,
time-outs and groundings
the strange habits of a foreign country.
I would return from visiting
my friends -- the one whose father
was a Navy man, stern and forceful,
who would yell and raise his hand
in threat when she didn't instantly obey;
the one whose parents seemed
bewildered and checked-out,
intellectuals, hands off, live and let live,
yet somehow not caring enough
to protect her from her older brothers --
and I would be so grateful,
like a traveller returning
who kisses the ground of home.
this weekend I will celebrate
with everything I've got
the birthday of the woman who birthed me,
who raised me up and gave me all the
confidence and kindness she had in her.
I hope that I can express to her
the admiration I feel
and the hope that lies behind
my pushiness about
doctor appointments,
exercise classes,
taking her meds.
the hope, and the need
to have my mother near me
even now.
especially now.
