Every Thanksgiving, an extra pan of dressing.
Every Christmas, two hams: one for us;
one for him. Every Easter,
baskets for his grandchildren, and if
she knew how to cook it, there’d
probably be lamb. She is nothing
if not on the nose. This week, she’s driving
(nervous as she gets) to doctor’s appointments,
she’s fetching mediations, she’s ironing clothes.
And most of this wouldn’t be bad except my mother
has never been to my house, doesn’t know
my route to work, my daily jewelry, whether I’d go
dark just to be left alone, I’m on
this road with my lonesome. I play songs
I learned sitting in her sanctuary,
strawberry bonbon liquifying in my jaw,
so close our knees were touching: Hosana, hosana.
One year they got the children real palm fronds.
I followed the procession, nightgown and tights
bleached from dingy to an indiscernible gray,
still dark at the seams and under my feet. If God
is for us, who can be against us? Mothers, I think:
That iron glance of iron. That faithful wound. That first
friend. My therapist says, “She’s survived places
you’ll never have to revisit.” For a God
whose mercies are new every morning, this is old.
But would you like to get well? Jesus once asked.
 
If I do, then who will remember
this, who will agree never to pass
it on? I wouldn’t know, I tell him.
If not for her,
I wouldn’t know.
I wouldn’t know.

—Destiny O. Birdsong

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A note from the artist: This artwork is part of “Who Cares?”, a traveling exhibition of painted portraits that honors caregivers and their gracious generosity. To bring the conversation to your community, contact PDubroof (at) gmail (dot) com.