Poetry Friday: Writing to a Vintage Photograph

 April's challenge was to write a poem in response to a vintage photograph (we were free to define "vintage" for better or worse.)  I chose a photo that has been on my bookshelf for years---one of my mother, catching me on a slide.  When I took the photo out of the frame to see if she'd written any identifying information on the back, I saw only a date--April 1965.  So sixty years ago, this month.  

 I intended to share this poem with my mom when I visited her this week, because on my visit a couple of weeks ago, she said she liked seeing my poem links on Facebook, and often read them.  She never commented because she thought a mom shouldn't do that (I would've been ok with it, Mom!)  But after I had drafted this poem on Monday night, I found out on Tuesday that she had passed away after a short illness.  

I haven't been able to make myself revise this draft as much as I could've, but I can't let it sit unpublished either.  In writing it, I realized how much my mom and I had in common, and how many things children take for granted.

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:

Liz

Tanita

Laura

Mary Lee

Tricia

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe.