Be Longings
The poem that presented itself when I asked, "How did holding on to my mother's stuff after she died prevent me from entering into a true relationship with her sooner?"
In a recent essay about letting go of beliefs, I wrote:
Holding onto my mother’s belongings did not bring me closer to her; in fact, as I’ve spent more time cultivating a spiritual practice, I realize now how those very items may have prevented me from entering into a true relationship with her sooner. But that’s for another essay.
Turns out it was for another poem. Here it is:
Be Longings
When my mother’s soul took flight
I was too young to know
that it did not take up residence
in the belongings
she left behind, no
Not in the platform rocker
or the Afghan blanket,
the cut glass cruet
or the diamond ring
Not in the stacks of linen hankies
though their scent was
unmistakably mom
Not in her letters, even,
though her slender hand had
formed the words I love you
in her impeccable cursive
Not even in the photos, which I
had always thought captured
her spirit – see it there, in
her eyes, her smile? No.
What I did not,
could not, know
was that
My mother’s wisdom would spring from my brow,
her gratitude from my finger tips,
her spirit from my eyes
That her empathy would bend
my daughter’s ear patiently
toward the pain of others;
that my sons’ own hearts would beat
with her compassion
That when I laugh, the kind of belly laugh
that should embarrass me but doesn’t,
my mother’s joy and mine
fly together on one wing,
divine.
It has taken this long
to empty the space around
me
enough to see,
to feel,
to know
that my mother’s soul
has always sung to me
from my own mouth
an endless song about
longing to be
free,
free of everything,
including the longings