Happy Mother's Day!

Welcome to the Poetry Friday Round-up I am delighted to be hosting for the first time. Coffee's on, apps are on the table, candles lit.

Oh, I almost forgot. Some music would be nice. Welcome! Let me take your coat. Make yourself at home ;)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ss7EJ-PW2Uk

Please feel free to let the music play while you browse.

This week we celebrate mothers:

Birth mothers, adoptive mothers, friends and family who are like mothers to us. They love , comfort , nurture, support and guide us—our soft place to land, our port in the storm. Five years ago, my beautiful mother Nancy died and left a hole in all our hearts. She was blessed with a long, wonderful life and we are grateful for everyday we had with her.

I adore this photo.

I woke up one night hearing my mother get up to feed my new baby brother, Mike. At two-years-old I heard my own baby "cry" and sat right down on the green tweed rocker next to her. Even then, I was a tired little mother— pajama strap falling off my shoulder. Thanks Mom, for teaching me well even at that age ;)

We have many people who "mother us "

over our lifetime....

Since her passing, I have had several beautiful women fill that "mothering role" for me in different ways - loving me, guiding me, comforting me and laughing till our sides hurt :)

Happy Mother's Day to all of you! Diane, Sandy, Erica Leigh, Ann,

Nancy, Val, & Scotty.

You have been such a blessing in my life. I love you all!

On my first Mother's Day without my mother,

I was struck how different it felt. The same reflex was still there, to do as I had always done. But instead, I had to take a big breath and honor her in a new way.

This poetic reflection shares the change in emotion that I felt.

Finally:

I thought I would share verse poem I wrote about a lovely memory of my mother.

I was so comforted this night, when the sound of the dishwasher brought her back to me.

Liquid Heartbeat

The stove light glows,

warming the empty kitchen.

I push START on the dishwasher.

The cycle begins.

Tip-toeing down the dark hallway,

I head to my window

slide it open and take in

one last delicious sip of night air.

Curling onto my bed,

I pull the sheet up and exhale.

Eyes closed, I notice the rhythmic sound of sloshing water,

swish, swash,

swish, swash,

            swish, swash…

whispering down the hall,

cascading over dishes,

rinsing away all evidence of things past.

This liquid heartbeat is comforting,

 and floats me away on childhood dreams.

swish, swash,

swish, swash,

            swish, swash…

My mother, like her mother

and her mother before her,

did dishes the old-fashioned way—

wrapped in vintage aprons

yellow Rubbermaid gloves shimmied on and snapped into place,

because…

that’s how you did it.

I imagine the tapping scratch of fork against plate

scraping vegetables the kids wouldn’t eat,

into the garbage.

Flatware and bowls rattling and clinking in their sudsy bath.

She pulls each fork out,

stroking it slowly with her yellow sponge,

looking for bits still clinging on.

The faucet handle rises—

each dish twists and turns in its warm shower.

Once clean to her discerning eye,

a brief shake,

then slipped into the rack.

Like a river meandering its way back to the ocean,

drips collect, trickling down the rubber mat

silently falling back into the sink.

I wonder where my mother’s thoughts drifted,

night after night,

bent over the same stainless-steel sink—

finishing up another meal while planning the next.

The never-ending cycle of a 1950’s mother and wife.

Grabbing a plate from the rack

She circles the terry cloth

printed with vintage cherries

across the front, then back,

holding it up to the evening light, to catch any stray tears.

The cupboard door creaks,

and the plate is back home.

What is it about the sound of dishes being washed

that immediately creates comforting, safe feelings deep in my soul?

Perhaps, it is because

the noisy evidence

confirmed my mother was near.

I could relax, close my eyes,

safe and surrounded by love.

swish, swash,

swish, swash,

            swish, swash…

I am hypnotized in the dark.

A whisper of breeze slips through the window, washing over me.

Once again, I am tucked safe in my childhood bed—

sinking deep into this feeling,

drifting off…

where all is right with the world.

©cathystenquist

Looking forward to next week when Patricia J. Franz at REVERIE will be hosting. See you then!

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