I’ve heard the advice about learning to forgive yourself,
good advice, and indispensable as ibuprofen.
I’ve had occasion to forgive myself,
but I’ve not really had to learn.
A privilege of growing up loved. And a mixed blessing:
for when it comes to affection, I expect more
than I deserve.
Mom, you died before I thought to ask
about the clothes you gave me to wear,
and the patches sewn on:
like the comfortable orthodoxy of heaven,
or faith in the labour of unseen angels.
Or like silence—
being the best way to settle arguments.
I picked that up; used it as a sidearm,
carried it for too many years.
Or like the artful swerve in you,
your open yawn, meeting your sister’s gossip.
Or the unexpected fire beneath your serenity.
The way you slowly turned away from the pot,
your back to the stove, looked across the family table,
and the history of patriarchy—and much else—
withered in your gaze.
And though you turned back to stirring the gravy,
it was a flash—now featured in the halls of justice.
I could never find the right word,
for your kind of loneliness, or was that simply the sigh
between your 1000 tasks?
And while you had words for me—
for my ability to out-disappoint your other children,
every time I come to write the words tender,
understanding, there you are.
Thank you, for the security of your kitchen, where
I’ve secretly watched for your own hidden wings.
Thank you for the eternal grip of your smile,
which I’ve never doubted, which has spoiled me,
yet fitted me for the long haul: living
with the unresolved, finding sufficiency
in what’s incomplete, and how not having
everything I want is part of being happy.
Today, in the mortuary of Christianity,
where nations jockey for Jesus, arm themselves with God,
I thank you for your bannerless faith, where I remain
a believer in your kind of Christ—
a small kingdom of goodness and mercy, taking root,
and humming beneath the surfaces of the world.
Such thoughts from the heart…I’m so grateful for your poetry.
As always, Pat, I truly appreciate your response.
A mother so deeply loved. Lovely pictures too. Thank you for the reflections.
Thanks so much, Ellen.
Such lovely words. Thank you, Stephen, once again.
Thank you, Marcia, always grateful.
“a small kingdom of goodness and mercy, taking root,
and humming beneath the surfaces of the world.”
That warms my heart all through. Good night or good morning to you, dear Stephen
Thank you, Leelah, my heart is warmed by your response.
A beautiful balance between the humanity and legacy of a person worthy of being remembered and honored.
Kellie, Thank you for beautifully framing this poem.
Overflowing with the priceless bounties that Mothers bequeath to their Sons
Thank you, Ananda!
Beautiful words, Steve,
I did try my best to show you how not to be so disappointing….
The final two paragraphs are so moving, especially the security of the kitchen – where we developed a healthy attachment style – and her kind of Christ.
Thanks for your words and thank you, MOM!
Thank you so much for this brother! Mom’s smiling.
This beautiful tribute to your mother is a kindness to all mothers like her. Thank you.
Thank you, Linda!
I’m not sure I can convey the warmth and sense of safety that comes to me in reading these words. They are words of a loved home, of normality, of the goodness of your mother sinking deep into you. The scenes you bring us into calm me in this time of upheaval and fear. There is rest in them. And there is this,
“I thank you for your bannerless faith, where I remain
a believer in your kind of Christ—
a small kingdom of goodness and mercy, taking root,
and humming beneath the surfaces of the world.”
Yes.