In loving memory of
Frances Longo Walsh (1915-1966)
I
recall the way
my
mother’s whole body jiggled when she laughed,
her
sweet, shy smile,
that
she understood Italian, but never spoke it,
the
utter simplicity of her desires...
never
asking for or receiving much
and
not once complaining.
She
had all she wanted, a home and family.
I
remember the helpmeet working side by side
with
our father, clearing the land
and
building our stucco home.
My
mind’s eye sees her plucking
chicken
feathers in the backyard,
walking
uphill home from the bus stop,
huffing,
puffing;
scratching
her itching back
against
the bedroom door frame;
camping,
just to please us children,
though
it was more work than fun for her.
Recall,
as if it were yesterday,
the
flowery apron over her housedress
with
its chain of safety pins
and
her elastic band bracelets,
and
Mother, standing at the stove, stirring
the
bubbling red sauce in the big enamel pot.
Little
Mommy, four-foot-ten and overweight—
She
served herself the skimpiest portions,
never
ate dessert, but occasionally gave in
to
one indulgence: a crusty Italian bastone
from
Minardi’s, sliced and spread with a pat of butter.
Hindsight
reveals her quick on her feet
in
the yard goods department at Quackenbush’s,
where
customers remembered her
for
smiles as quick as her feet.
When
she arrived home, she changed her clothes
and
aired out one of her two work dresses
on
the clothesline off the back porch.
In
retrospect, I see her
rolling
her dark hair back into two neat curls
above
her forehead,
applying
red lipstick to her upper lip,
bringing
both lips together to transfer color
to
the lower, then, blotting.
Never
attended high school, but
she
could add columns of numbers
rapidly,
in her head.
She
read the newspaper nightly,
and
completed the crossword puzzle.
My
memory flashes to her relaxing evenings
in
our parlor, in the old tufted chair,
watching
Alfred Hitchcock or Lucy or
Barbara
Stanwick in, “The Big Valley”.
She
never missed the easy crooning of Perry Como.
He
was her favorite. (He’d been a barber, like her father.)
I
remember it pleased our father
that
she always waited up for him
till
he arrived home after working
the
night shift at Wright’s.
Yes,
I still see clearly, her dear kerchiefed head,
which
Gramma remarked, made her look
like
a peasant in a babushka.
Remember
trying to convince her to hike her hemlines,
wear
“Kiss Me Pink” lipstick, update her hair style,
learn
to drive.
Flashback
to hear her inviting my date
to
come in for a cup of tea at our kitchen table
when
he brought me home.
Vividly,
I recollect the day
she
was curled up tight on the couch.
She
didn’t want me to call the ambulance,
though
her hernia was strangling,
didn’t
want to spoil plans
my
sister and I had with our friends.
I
disobeyed. The doctors operated just in time,
before
gangrene set in.
My
mind’s eye still sees tears in her eyes
when
she came to my wedding
without
my father.
And
I remember her joy
to
learn both daughters were pregnant, however,
she
died before her grandchildren were born.
Oh!
How much her grandchildren have missed
for
never having known her—
which
is one of the reasons
I’ve
written this poem
Maude
Carolan
*The above poem was originally published in the Paterson Literary Review.
Would you like to read more poems?
"Behold the Lamb...poetically"
by Maude Carolan Pych
is a book of poems
about the Birth, Death & Resurrection of Jesus,
written over a period of 30 years.
It is available online
at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, CBD, etc.
www.maudecarolanpych.net
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