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A rare thing, my Mother's touch.
Though it was she I desired,
her babies I lovingly embraced.
Letting us make messes.
Be boisterous.
Expected independence.
“You do it, you learn it”
Helped us raise each other,
myself in the lead.
Our imaginary
world, rarely interrupted,
allowed us the freedom
to entertain ourselves.
Mom was not one to coddle,
but to patiently teach.
Cooking, gardening,
care giving.
To plant a tree,
and properly prune.
Create a thriving home
for salamanders.
Names of plants and trees.
Cloud formations.
how to patch up bloodied
knees and noses.
My Mother knew how to
transport a station wagon
filled to the brim with kids.
Provided us with masking
tape to square off our own
territory, creating safe
havens from point A to B.
She was fearless during
that overwhelming time.
Chaotic household of
youngins’ needs.
Teens tempers, mixed
with yearnings and desires
She taught us perseverance.
Eyes forward
No matter... calm or storm.
Her demeanor,
devoted and gentle.
Yet, fierce in determination.
An educated “No bones about it”
woman. A nurse.
Cute in a clean,
crisp natural way.
A woman of extraordinary
capabilities, rarely
comfortable with a compliment.
Not one to linger in a
moment of luxury.
To be soft and silly.
Or settle in for a deep cuddle.
The way she was raised
amongst her kin of many,
being the youngest.
from a different time.
Regardless of my perspective,
She loved enough to
make 5 children.
Provided food.
and kept us clean.
Encouraged the decoration of
our bedrooms to our
personal delight.
Allowed dogs and bunnies
to share our lives.
Insisted on the five food groups
at each evening's family meal.
These days, I cherish the hand
picked cards always mailed on
time for occasions and
holidays. ThankYou notes for
every kindness shown her way.
With her gardens beautifully
tended, herbs carefully harvested
and patiently dried, at Christmas
she labeled recycled spice bottles
collected from here and there.
Yesterday I gathered them,
Small glass vessels in hand.
My name and the date,
meticulously written by
her hand on white labels.
Over time, I have
saved them all.
Ingredients left intact.
My Mother's language of
love lined up in front of me,
these Little Bottles,
a culmination of the years.
Aromatic herbs
tenderly tucked inside.
I understood then,
I had been
Held in Mother's
arms all along...
I just never knew how to
fully accept her embrace.
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Copyright © 2016.
Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
My Mother and Father are both 83.
It is our honor
to care for them now,
as they did for us then