Ode to My Mother

Picking the jar of Skippy Super Chunk from the back of the shelf, forsaking all others while feeling sorry, my mother’s fingers searching for the Chosen One

She taught me to be selective—out of a tradition of paranoia, but still…it was something; a skill

She was my mother; mom

Squealing to “Pay attention not to squish him!”, she raced to find her finest empty Parkay (…butter)  container, since all lives mattered—lesson learned sooner, not later

She helped me be empathetic—for empathy’s sake, not for credit

She was my mother, Marna as well

We drew names out of the multicolored knit hat she made, hoping Fate herself would help me, her youngest daughter, select the appropriate place for a college grad

She wanted to allow me what she never had—complete free will be it good or bad

She was my mother, Ma

Lying on my couch in the smallest of places, she held my hand and said she’d wished the Graces–had taken her instead

She would have given her life for his; he like one of her kids

She was my mother, Linda

“Stop calling me Linda”, she’d say, guaranteeing the next words out of my mouth would be

Que—Linda! Why don’t you like your name…Linda?

She never learned to love herself the way she loved somebody else

She was Que Linda

It meant ‘beautiful’—at least pretty, both of which she was but didn’t see.

It meant mother-of-mine

She was my first love—when you know, you know

Que Linda

(I hope you’ve been resting peacefully these past 3 years; are having fun, as the departed surely do. We miss, miss, miss you)