REMEMBERING MAMA

 I have so many memories of my mother, and here is a poem about a special one.  This Mothers Day is the first without Mama. 

LAUNDRY DAY                                                                                                 

We dangle like human laundry

from the large gray metal T’s that form

each end of the clotheslines, slowly swaying,

waiting for Mama to finish hanging

fresh-laundered sheets. She lifts and folds

each one over the taut lines, fastening

with wood clothespins to form a rectangular

room for my sister, Treasa, and I. 

Inside go two weather-beaten lawn chairs,

our “Art box,” and a small round wood table,

once a spool for telephone line, now painted

turquoise with leftover house paint.

White fabric walls thwack between cottony whispers.

Damp air inside is a sultry bouquet, cool and clean,

mixed with the scent of mother’s cherished roses

and the pungent mown lawn.

Shadows from trees swagger

upon the brilliant walls spawning illusions

of misshapen gnomes, hideous witches. We sip

apple juice and nibble sweet graham crackers

adhered together with homemade icing.

Footsteps signal someone’s approach and we shush

each other as a shadow looms nearer, grows larger.

Mama peeks in with a “BOO!” savoring our laughter.

Then she squats upon the grass, picks up a red crayon,

begins to color her fingernails. Mimicking mama,

Treasa colors hers black and I choose amber.

We come together in this private moment,

mama a girl, just like us.

Concealed within our cotton cocoon

we eavesdrop on boisterous birds,

blow tepid breath on ladybugs

and view butterflies flickering silhouettes

as they sip moisture off the dripping fabric.

I gaze at sister and smile as we sketch

with Crayola Crayons; Plum mountains,

Turquoise Blue lakes, and Burnt Sienna trees

with Sea Green leaves. I add Periwinkle butterflies.

Treasa draws Violet Red hearts

and a lop-sided Yellow Orange sun. 

Mama draws a big pink heart

with two little girl faces inside.

Treasa uses clothespins to anchor our drawings

onto the near-dry cotton sheet walls.

We make wishes (I for a kitten) holding

yellow dandelions beneath our chins.

Mama says she wishes for more laundry

and we think she is silly. When the bedding is dry,

mama folds up our temporary tent like a nomad

and shepherds us inside.