Here is another poem by Miriam Pederson. Though she refers to mothers, in my case it makes me think more of my grandmother.
One tradition I was fond of in the Presbyterian church of my childhood was tied to Mother’s Day, when every person in the congregation was noticed for having a mother, and given a rose to commemorate her. I am not certain about this, but I think it was a white rose if she had died, a red rose if she were living. It might have been the first time I as a child was made to feel equal in some way to the adults. We all had mothers, and my rose was no different from everyone else’s.
MOTHERS NEWLY GONE
Our mothers are leaving us.
One by one they flutter through the door
as if we had expected it,
as if we had prepared
for this good-bye.
We can hardly follow their recipes.
Their remedies for flu,
for heartache, are somewhere
in the cupboard;
the names of relatives to be invited
are mixed in with the old Green Stamps.
How can we, their busy daughters,
sew on patches to make things last?
What are we to do
with these old compacts,
these letters, cards and cold creams?
How will we behave
without their disapproving frowns,
their Listen, honey…
their Oh, sweetheart!
We’re standing up straight,
we’re being kind,
and we’ve sent off the thank-you notes,
but they are minding other business
beyond the blue,
leaving us in middle age
to sift through their precious lives
for clues to who we are.
-Miriam Pederson
Gladsome Lights 
I still miss my mother, who passed on many years ago. She advised me on everything from how to turn the boys’ school shirts white again after a disastrous wash; how to cook venison (which I don’t eat); what to do with my sick children … above all, she exuded love and care even though she and I lived too far apart to see each other very often. Now, I am the one that advises on cookng, cleaning, gardening and how to cope with varous crises in life! Thank you for this memorable poem!
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After eleven years, I still miss my mother all the time. The year after she died, I went to Walgreens for something. And I turned around and saw that the greeting card shelves were behind me. I thought, “Oh, I should look at these Mother’s Day cards,” and then realized I had no one to send them to. I just burst out crying in the middle of the store.
AMDG
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I’d never come across Miriam Pederson, but I really enjoyed this poem. Reading it, certain details (the Green Stamps, the cold cream) gave me the sense that she was of my generation, and probably midwestern. And so it was. I just read her obituary, and found she was two years older than me, and lived in Michigan. Some would quibble about Michigan being ‘midwestern,’ but in Grand Rapids, it’s a distinction without much of a difference.
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We had that tradition in our church as well, only we had red and white carnations.
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Poignant words. I am blessed to have my mother and father still here on earth (89 and 91) and in good health and mind. I wonder sometimes what it will feel like to not have them a phone call away.
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I love the tradition with the roses, and the poem fit my mood tonight. I always miss my mother and my grandmothers when this holiday rolls around. I’m glad that I got to stop by tonight, Gretchen- thank you for sharing!
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