2001/mother

I think and think
and think about
my mother,
but all I can
remember
are the few rare
moments she spoke
to me.

There was the time
some man,
he might have been
a preacher, but not
likely in our house,
said something
about how healthy
she looked, how fat,
and made her fume.
Or was it that he
thought she was
pregnant,
when she was not?

She sat in the upholstered
rocking chair
in the afternoon,
maybe reading
to my brother.
And I see her
in the kitchen,
cutting out biscuits
with a glass.
Stirring grape jelly.
The cake she made
called Amalgamation,
stored in a deep can
in the pantry
’til Christmas.
I don’t think
I liked it all
that much.
except that it
was such
an event.

I can remember
her food,
but not her face
or her hand
as it was served.
The strawberry cake
she made late in
her life,
that was my favorite.
Perhaps for its color.
Her crumb-top apple
cobbler.

I don’t know
if she really
liked to cook,
or just had to.
She didn’t sew,
except to mend.
But then I only
knew her
when she was
sick,
which was all
my life.

11/3/01