Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Mother


This is for readwritepoem's napowrimo prompt #7, which asked us to think about nicknames. I started thinking about different terms of endearment a mother has for her baby. I began to think a of son being comforted by such terms of endearment at the end of his life, and that led me to this:


He is at the beginning
of the returning.
Her voice comes
in the tired evening
whispering his childhood name—
Sweetie, Macushla, Mijo.

She smoothes his sagging cheeks
and spent skin
with her tender hand.
His limbs no longer ache
and wonder what to do
with themselves.

For she swaddles him
safe and tight and
gathers him to her breast.
He is home—
his body has always
been cradled in hers.

His lungs no longer rattle
His heart no longer struggles
She breathes him in
And there is no more trying—
Just being. He is hers.
He is home.

13 comments:

  1. good one...much meaning to us with kids and grandchildren

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  2. I enjoyed reading this - it was very engaging, very moving...
    Come meet Ziggy

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  3. Erin, that is beautiful;thank you.

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  4. Oh I love this. These are my favorite parts:

    Her voice comes
    in the tired evening
    whispering his childhood name—
    Sweetie, Macushla, Mijo.

    and

    She breathes him in
    And there is no more trying—
    Just being. He is hers.
    He is home.

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  5. wow...that took my breath away.
    beautiful and comforting.

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  6. I love this. There's such a feeling of warmth in the piece, and it reminded me of the time I cradled my newborn nephew in my arms. Thank you. :)

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  7. Erin--I absolutely love how your piece gently resolves. It reminds me of holding my mother as she died. Her breathing grewing quiter and softer like the ticking of a clock that is allowed to stop . Perhaps you've experienced someone's death this way. So peaceful, so full of sadness--and grace.

    Makes my day to read your work. No pressure or anything. :-)

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  8. With tears in my eyes I tell you that this is superb. In the last days of my mother's life (we had her at home in her own bedroom surrounded by framed photos of her family on the walls) I was sitting beside her and she suddenly beamed and brightened, telling me, Honey, I can feel Mom holding my hand!

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  9. "His lungs no longer rattle
    His heart no longer struggles
    She breathes him in
    And there is no more trying—
    Just being. He is hers.
    He is home."

    Love this whole piece, and that final stanza just is gorgeous. I especially like the ambiguity of "she." (Mother? Nature? Death?) This is a keeper, Erin!

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  10. Holy crap! That is so amazing Erin! Wowee. Great job. It gave me chills. So perfect. Just perfect. Thanks.

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  11. Thanks to everyone who commented! I'm so glad you dropped by. Kathleen and Lydia--your comments brought tears to my eyes. This poem was partially inspired by my grandfather's experience at the end of his life. He seemed to be much more present in his childhood than in the world around him. It's also partially based on what my mom experienced with him when he died--she was there and said it was beautiful.

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