The first thing I did this morning was open the long, yellow envelope with the word MOM scrawled across it. Sophie brought it home from school on Friday afternoon, along with a tomato plant in a green ceramic pot. The envelope held a beaded bracelet, purple, pink and pearly plastic strung on elastic. I slipped it over my hand and raised my arm until it stopped on that generous part of my arm above the elbow. When I lowered my arm, the bracelet fell to the floor, so I picked it up and put it in the dish on my dresser that holds trinkets, a safety pin, a Buddha coin, and earring whose pair is lost. A lost pair. Pare me down.
Even in year twenty, these plastic beads strung on elastic, sprung.
Sophie's eyes implore me. Beseech, plead, do something. I'm not sure if I'm projecting the implore, the beseech, the plea. Do something. She and I are knit, intertwined, beads on a string, strung.
Is imagination greater than identity?
We are strung together with our children, aren't we? I thought the hard part was raising them but I find it doesn't end there. Both of my older kids have split from their partners this year. New worries.
ReplyDeleteHappy belated Mother's Day:)
happy mother's day, elizabeth!
ReplyDeleteI have no answers. But I tell you this- you are a gorgeous writer and you and your daughter are beautiful.
ReplyDeleteI think it is within our power to interpret any and all parts as we wish. If we can't change the circumstances, and so often we can't, we must be able to find feelings that strengthen us, give us courage and hope, within what seems to be fixed and unyielding. xoxo
ReplyDeleteLovely, and haunting.
ReplyDeleteSo beautifully said, Elizabeth.
ReplyDeleteThis is a poem. Just lovely.
ReplyDelete