Yesterday I drove to the Mother Revolution
where I knew all mothers rallied
around my mother who now sheds her hair.
This is your daughter, they said
and my Daughter Revolution
drove me to her house
and said look deeper than her scalp,
her red farmer handkerchief.
There we sat, quietly, with our hands in our lap,
the sun fingering the windows.
But mothers and daughters surrounded us;
they stood in the kitchen making coffee,
some sat on the couch flipping channels.
Such normalcy when Mom asked
me to get an Ensure for her because she
couldn’t stand to eat.
A mother handed it to me.
We said nothing while we sat there.
Who was this woman? I asked as
I saw a five year old climb in her lap.
A teenager brought me my coat and I suggested going out
to a store to buy something, look at anything.
I drove because she said she was too tired;
I glanced at the woman in my rear-view mirror
who nodded solemnly.
I tried on some clothes with the other daughters
who squealed and laughed.
I peeked out onto the bench in my
too-tight pants and saw her sitting sideways,
staring ahead at nothing. I walked out with nothing.
Options exhausted, we drove home in silence.
A mother and daughter played “I Spy” in the back seat.
I focused on the rolling hills and farm houses.
Even our hug goodbye was full of strangers standing
in between us, pulling us apart
just as the mothers and daughters stood behind us,
pushing us together. We were not elastic.
I left, missing out on her fear,
I left, her missing out on mine.

04/04/2006

Posted on 04/04/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky