April 1965
It is April, 1965.
She is my mother.
Later, in college,
I will have the same haircut
as hers—(except my bangs
will split at a cowlick)
Later, I will be blindsided
by blood and lose a baby—
as she did (except her losses
were many)
Later, I often parented
alone, like she did
(except I will flee
to her house where
every cooking pot is a toy
every fat wondrous bean
is eaten with glee
and ladybugs light
on my children’s fingers.)
Later, she will tell me hard
stories of her long-gone
mother (but only once,
and never again)
Later, she will return letters
I’ve written to her, gifting me
a history of myself
(nevertheless I will
often forget who I should be)
Later, much later,
I will fix her a plate
of food, and sing
a snippet of the song
she once sang to me,
to soothe my
fever dream (even though
my voice will break on the notes,
and she will eat hardly
any of the food)
But in this photo,
on this day,
I’m a heedless two-year-old;
Her arm curves over my lap,
keeping me from spilling
into the dirt.
It is April, 1965
and she is only
(but forever)
my mother.
------Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)
You can find my poetry sisters' vintage photos and poems here:
Poetry Friday is hosted today by Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe.
