Thanksgiving at Mom's House
I didn't call
her "Mom"
but I
could have
(should have)
There'd 'av been
no conflict
as I call
my mother
"Mama"
Strange to think
that for a
kid who revelled
in calling adults
by their first name
I would
often find it
awkward
to use the name
"Joyce"
It seemed
improper somehow
less familiar
than it
really was
I should've
(could've)
called her
"Mom"
but I didn't
She became
another mother
to me
thirty-three
years ago
By marriage
of course,
the official
term being
"mother-in-law"
Not the
stereotypical
"hate each
other's guts"
type either
No
she was
loving, kind
(opinionated, direct)
a source of support
Conflicts
were few
and frustrations
might occur
only occasionally
She exuded
love and affection
through her smile,
eyes, words,
and actions
A soft
heart-y interior
within a tough confrontational
(very particular)
shell
The
woman
could
be
fierce
Loved by
all
yet
abandoned
by two
She didn't deserve
to be alone
but she was
a survivor
(thrive-or)
After her
second husband
left her for
"the ministry"
HA!
I started
to get
her flowers
for her
birthday
She'd admire them
sitting on the stove
surprised to find out
that they were hers
(every time)
A woman who
cultivated roses
(a thorny rose herself)
should always
be remembered
Yellow carnations
(if I could find them)
would still
look good
weeks after
I wasn't allowed
to get her flowers
this last birthday
'cause the budget went
to a flowering plant instead
But I sent some
down anyway
six weeks later
an emissary
(my final tribute)
I'm told
she liked them;
and they were present
at her passing
(and so was I)
A silent sentinel
to two grieving
loving daughters
anguishly saying
good-bye
I prayed
if it were His will
that I'd be there
for them
(for me)
God's timing
is perfect
threading the needle
between birthdays
and anniversaries
Forever avoiding
a taint of grief
on future milestones;
great indeed are
His tender mercies!
Her favorite room
(double doors to the deck)
looked out upon
her wooded garden
so carefully kept
Within her house
built just for her
(over 50 years past)
at the end of the street
Forty-four O'eight Banff
The site of so many
Thanksgiving Dinners
with assigned seats,
crystal goblets, and taboo subjects
(mostly) avoided
A room and a table
filled to the brim
with family and friends,
green chairs and bun warmers
(fall foliage decor abounding)
She cooked her turkey
upside down
so the white meat
would always
be moist and tender
My "real" Thanksgiving
had been the Day After
(in Claremont)
until the Day After
was no more
I should have
realized earlier
that one
wasn't more "real"
than the other
I was just
getting a bonus
Thanksgiving
(a double portion of
my favorite Holiday)
Yearly traditions
die way too fast
but at least the
memories made
generally outlast
This year
we're all scattered
to various homes
while Mom's house
now sits alone
A place of joy
a place of sorrow
a place of feasting
a place of no more
tomorrows
Thanksgiving at Mom's house
was so very special
but feasting with her
next will resume
at Heaven's table
