Hi Mama
I miss you,
miss your skin, beautiful and brown.
I miss how I know you have been here:
Your high school diploma, perched like royalty
atop the bookcase,
your housecoat hanging on the closet door,
jewelry, hair rollers, your favorite quilt
stashed away.
I miss your voice,
your laugh, loud and long,
the slap of your hand
on someone’s back or shoulder.
Alice Ruth, the slam of your pots and pans
on stove and kitchen counter
told off one old low-down dog or another.
Your kitchen made you world-famous in our world:
Pineapple coconut cake, sweet potato pie,
potato salad so good they’d set our tongues
to dancing, hymns of thanksgiving.
Meticulous in the kitchen, in everything
you undertook — sewing, keeping books,
planning schoolroom lessons —
you lifted up intelligence and education
like an eagle teaching us to soar
on currents of the wind.
You tended to your young people,
to your sons and daughters,
like they were God’s own clay
you were given to shape.
So sure of yourself, your opinions,
your fierce independence clashed,
in the early years, with mine.
You’d try to curve your will around mine:
There’s a time and a season for all things.
Slowly, in the later years, the season
turned from storm to spring. I’d hear
you say You are a smart, smart girl and
You’re so kind — your highest praise,
words that meant the most to me.
You’d say: If you find a path with no obstacles,
it probably doesn’t lead anywhere.
You were proud of all your children achieved.
In your last days, I did everything I could
to make you happy. Sending flowers.
Inviting friends and relatives from
near and far to honor you and father.
Decorating your room with lavender,
taking you home to see your church
and visit your blood relations.
On our last visit, showing you photos
and naming the people they pictured,
playing gospel music, styling a cowboy hat
on your head: This certainly has been a lovely
day. I have enjoyed it so much, you said.
Reading scripture and poetry to you
over the phone while you lay dying alone,
COVID stealing your breath,
each exhale sounding like your last,
before you grew wings
and took flight to your heavenly home.
I miss you, Mom.
Your photo sits on top of my bedroom bookcase.
You’re looking down, keeping a watchful eye on me.
I dream of you, feel you in my heart’s
big ache. The model of a person’s life
will live long beyond her words. You
live on and on in my memory.
Mama, I wish you freedom, and joy,
easy passage to your ancestors.
Homecoming. Laughter, loud and
long, you slapping folks on the back,
rapping on hearts to open,
tapping, tapping on my heart.
— by Lisa Sarasohn (based on notes by and conversations with Cheryl Johnson)