Mother's Day Gifts

New York

This morning I awoke early, wanting to linger in bed for awhile. But I'd signed up for a 4 mile race to benefit the Junior League's campaign against domestic violence. So, I reluctantly got out of bed at 7, and set out for the starting line
(very slowly). Near the pond in Central Park, I heard a birdsong that I didn't recognize. It wasn't any of the usual birds you hear --not a robin, cardinal, bluejay, mockingbird, nuthatch. I scanned the treetops where I thought the sound was coming from. And then I saw it. A bright tangerine colored Baltimore Oriole. I haven't seen one in years. Literally.

That was my Mother's Day gift.

And now for yours. I've decided to include two poems: one written by a woman in memory of her mother; the other by a man.
I thought it would give equal time to mothers of sons and daughters. And for me, it was an opportunity to look at the homage/memory of a mother from the son's perspective in contrast to one written by a daughter.

To all of you--a Happy Mother's Day.

P.S. I just got this Mother's day email from my best childhood friend. Our mothers were best friends, too. "Hope that you are having a good day. Can’t help but remember our Mom’s today and what great role models they were. Should have thanked them more."
That's for sure. M.C.


...And now the Mother poems as promised.


Mama, Come Back
by Nellie Wong

Mama, come back.

Why did you leave
now that I am learning you?

The landlady next door
how she apologizes
for my rough brown skin
to her tenant from Hong Kong
as if I were her daughter,
as if she were you.



How do I say I miss you
your scolding
your presence
your roast loin of pork
more succulent, more tender
than any hotel chef's?



The fur coat you wanted
making you look like a polar bear
and the mink-trimmed coat
I once surprised you
on Christmas morning.



Mama, how you said "importment"
for important,
your gold tooth flashing
an insecurity you dared not bare,
wanting recognition
simply as eating noodles

and riding in a motor car
to the supermarket
the movie theater
adorned in your gold and jade
as if all your jewelry
confirmed your identity

a Chinese woman in America.



How you said "you better"
always your last words
glazed through your dark eyes
following me fast as you could

one November evening in New York City
how I thought "Hello, Dolly!"
showed you an America
you never saw.



How your fear of being alone
kept me dutiful in body
resentful in mind.

How my fear of being single
kept me
from moving out.



How I begged your forgiveness
after that one big fight
how I wasn't wrong
but needed you to love me
as warmly as you hugged strangers.

From Death of a Long Steam Lady by Nellie Wong, published by West End Press.



My Mother on an Evening in Late Summer
by Mark Strand

1
When the moon appears
and a few wind-stricken barns stand out
in the low-domed hills
and shine with a light
that is veiled and dust-filled
and that floats upon the fields,
my mother, with her hair in a bun,
her face in shadow, and the smoke
from her cigarette coiling close
to the faint yellow sheen of her dress,
stands near the house
and watches the seepage of late light
down through the sedges,
the last gray islands of cloud
taken from view, and the wind
ruffling the moon's ash-colored coat
on the black bay.


2
Soon the house, with its shades drawn closed, will send
small carpets of lampglow
into the haze and the bay
will begin its loud heaving
and the pines, frayed finials
climbing the hill, will seem to graze
the dim cinders of heaven.
And my mother will stare into the starlanes,
the endless tunnels of nothing,
and as she gazes,
under the hour's spell,
she will think how we yield each night
to the soundless storms of decay
that tear at the folding flesh,
and she will not know
why she is here
or what she is prisoner of
if not the conditions of love that brought her to this.


3
My mother will go indoors
and the fields, the bare stones
will drift in peace, small creatures --
the mouse and the swift -- will sleep
at opposite ends of the house.
Only the cricket will be up,
repeating its one shrill note
to the rotten boards of the porch,
to the rusted screens, to the air, to the rimless dark,
to the sea that keeps to itself.
Why should my mother awake?
The earth is not yet a garden
about to be turned. The stars
are not yet bells that ring
at night for the lost.
It is much too late.



From Mark Strand: Selected Poems, by Mark Strand.