There are many things I remember about her,
The first thing
I remember was her hair.
Metal, a silvery, solid steel
Yet it did not shine.
Except on Sunday mornings when
it mysteriously and magically turned black and glossy before church
and afterward changed back.
There are so many things I remember about her,
An important thing
I remember was her face.
Delicious, smooth, smiling chocolate
With raisin eyes
that could suddenly light up like hot red embers
when she was putting me in my place.
There are a million things I remember about her,
But the most thing is
I remember her hands.
Flowers, roses with warm pink petals
bright open palms
on which I could place my small white hand
and there was still was space to spare.
I would put my head against her chest,
listen to her hum through her breastbone
with her wonderful pink flower hands
holding me there
keeping me so warm.
Mama’s meaty, magnificent hands.
Those hands carried candy sometimes
And sharply pointed at my naughty face
And swung switches sometimes
And showed the way too many times to remember.
There is a cosmos of things I remember about her,
But the last thing I remember is that as years passed,
metal head grew powder white
raisin eyes became cloudy
And flower hands grew so small and bony
That she could place her small ash black and faded pink hand on my open white palm
And there still was space to spare
And many times, my wonderful old Mama did just that
And we cackled about how the world turns around.
“Ecclesiastes!” She would holler.
“Ecclesiastes! A time for everything!”
And she was so right.
A time for everything.
And the time came when they put that glossy black wig on her head
And closed her raisin eyes
And folded those now tiny flower hands across her chest
So I could never be held there again
So the pink part of those rose pink hands would be hidden from me forever
Except when I remember.
Now is the time to remember.
In a list
Comments
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There you go again...you are very skilled in evoking emotion in your writes. How the size of you hand reverses as you and "Mama" move on in age, signifying your changing roles with regard to one another, yet no loss of love is wonderful. Very touching. And I read that comment about her reaching 103...wow.
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Thank you!
Wow! I so appreciate your pointing out these things to me. I will correct the repetitive usage of "was" immediately (how embarrassing). The unusual usage of "the most thing is" was deliberate. I meant the colloquialism to reflect Mama's manner of speech. When I perform this piece, I imitate her voice in places and the line is more clear. However, do you think this line is a distraction in its written form? If so, I will consider rewording.
Thank you again for providing another pair of eyes!
Love,
Camille
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Oh, my. This made me weep. Thank you. You are pointing out the importance of the final times with my mother... This was a perfect poem. Just perfect.
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My black Nanny was Helen; and we loved when she fried chicken. We only had her one day a week, and Mom enjoyed the break. My poem of Losing my Mom is called "the talisman root". Do you like the Byrd version of Eccliesiastes 3: 1-9? I llinked the utube version some where on one of my pieces. the eleventh verse is one of my favorites, and is a clue to our heart condition; He has placed eternity in the hearts of man; but they do not unnderstand his plan from beginning to end. That is why we feel young, trapped in aging bodies; and why time flies when we are having fun. Hope you can borrow that black berry again to give me an update...
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I wrote this poem in 2005 about the beautiful African American woman who took care of me when I was little. I called her "Mama". (My own mother has always been "Mother".) Growing up in the Southern United States, it was a common practice to hire a black woman to take care of the children. I was truly blessed to be so close to such a wonderful human being. She taught me so many things. My relationship with her continued until her death in 2003. She was 103 years old.
Anyway, as I am now facing the loss of Mother as well, I remembered this poem and put it on allpoetry. Doing what you and I are doing in caregiving creates an even more intimate, loving bond. This, of course, makes the prospect of living without Mother more difficult.
I am so glad you were touched by the piece.
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