"But not you, to whom I need to talk"

In three weeks it will be the sixth anniversary of my firstborn's birth, the anniversary of the time my mom dropped everything and entrusted her life to a dicey vehicle the nine hour drive to Minneapolis. She, mother of eight, knew a woman craves her mother over those first exalted and miserable days; that I would need to be mothered a little too. She swaddled Florence, set her under a sunny window to cure a touch of jaundice, smiled and crooned to her staring little face, cleaned my fridge, baked rhubarb pie, hosted well-wishers on my behalf, reminisced comfortably, and chuckled over how much she'd forgotten of her own early parenting days.

This year it grieves me that the potted African violet on my coffee table is still abloom six years later as it was the week of that visit, but my mom has been transplanted beyond reach of all my senses, except memory.

I want you back, I want you here,
even though April’s loss brings on the flowers,
trees forming new buds along each branch.
But there’s no turning back for us,
whose calyx, pistil, ovary blooms in flesh.
And each tree has a different seed: wings, pods, cones.
It’s an old story, . . .replacement, a way back
as a grandchild wears your eyes, your chin, your mouth.
But it’s not you, to whom I need to talk.
I want to call you on the telephone.
A woman is her mother, but alone.
(Barbara Crooker)