New Work
“Mothers: A Composite”
She was on the Kindertransport, evacuated from Pearl Harbor, segregated in Alabama, rescued from Romania
She was orphaned at five and loves to be called “Mother”
She lost a breast, a kidney, a hip, a husband; she wakes every day feeling optimistic
She allows her grandchildren to eat chocolate pudding for breakfast
She curses in Yiddish and German, and a little bit in French
She sends cash for your birthday, in the amount of your age, in two-dollar bills
She repairs her own glasses using Band-aids or Scotch tape
She makes Thanksgiving dinner one month after bunion surgery
Her salary, at your age, was $44 every other week
She gave birth on a military base during a tornado, a blackout, an air raid, a flu epidemic – with the help of an ophthalmologist assigned to OBGYN
She learns the rules of every sport her children and grandchildren play
She sleeps upright in a chair at your hospital bedside, pacing quietly at the foot of your bed when her feet bend with cramps
She accepts your friends at holiday meals, even the barefooted ones with tattoos and piercings everywhere
She sends you a Valentine’s Day card every February, with a piece of candy taped inside
She refers to her scars as “beauty marks”
She sends you clippings from the newspaper: anthrax in letters, spinach with bacteria, peanuts are tainted, SARS – just in case
She taped a list of what everyone likes to eat on the inside panel of a kitchen cabinet; she makes your favorites when you visit
She keeps you company during the night while you lay awake sick; she lies awake alone when you are sick and far away
She pretends to be interested in your pet tarantula, iguana, snake, ferret, etc.
She presses her cheek to your cheek even when you’re covered in acne
She sings messages into your voice mail
She counsels you through the hard times: “this is part of life, too”
She sends you a card on Mother’s Day, thanking you for allowing her to be the mother of an exceptional person
Tell her how much she means to you, and she’ll wave it away with the hand that soothed your head, held your hand
“Thank you for calling.” My mother will say. “But don’t exaggerate. There is nothing extraordinary about me.” When I protest, she will change the subject: “Don’t forget to wear boots,” my mother will say, “it’s going to rain where you are.”
Nothing extraordinary indeed.
