Miriam Pederson | Gladsome Lights

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

WHAT IS OUR DEEPEST DESIRE?

To be held this way in our mother’s arms,
to be nestled deep in the warmth
of her body, her gaze,
to be adored, to overwhelm her
with our sweetness.
This is what we seek in chocolate,
in the food and drink and drugs
that stun the senses, that fill the veins
with the rich cream of well being.
What we take for lust—can it be, perhaps,
a heavy pang of longing to be swaddled,
close, close to the heartbeat of our mother?
No bucket seats, Jacuzzi, or even a lover’s embrace
can duplicate this luxuriance,
this centered place on the roiling planet.

When the old woman, small and light,
can be carried in the arms of her son,
he, at first, holds her tentatively,
a foreign doll,
but gradually, as the pool loses its ripples,
he sees his face in hers
and draws her to him,
rocking to the rhythm of her breathing.
This is the way to enter and leave the world.