Mom, Mommom, Me
My grandmother, Jeanette Dykman, a South African artist, was diagnosed with cancer in 2015, and died in 2019. These poems are about her, and moments and conversations I shared with my mother, Melody.
Some Roses and an Orchid
It’s my grandmother’s birthday today,
and so many people
have given her flowers.
She usually gets many calls
but this year
her studio
is full
of magnificent petals
and buds
waiting to bloom.
She told my mom this
and then asked:
Do you think it’s because of the cancer?
And my mom said:
Yes mom, I think it might be.
***
Over the Line
The dog had destroyed the Christmas decorations.
Knocked over the tree and then ravaged its fruits:
The three wise men, purchased in Hong Kong
on our way back to South Africa from the United States,
the kangaroo from Australia,
the angel and the cross.
There is a lesson here. You said.
I don’t want to buy more things. Things can break.
And it is just too painful when they do. I just want to use up the things I have.
I don’t want any more.
I nodded from the other end of the call.
Making occasional sounds so you knew the line hadn’t broken too.
I was sad the Christmas decorations I’d known my whole life were gone.
I was sad you had to mourn the loss of these objects and their memories.
But things break mom. I said. And it is okay to be sad. I think you’re
on mourning overload. And adding one more loss is just too many.
We went back to talking about Mommom. About the morphine and the diapers.
I’m feeling stronger mentally though. You said.
That’s good mom. I feel like I’m in a good position to be here for you.
I’m sorry I cry every time I talk to you. You said.
That’s okay. That’s why I called.
***
Counting Seconds
Three seconds,
Sometimes four.
Mom holds one hand
and I have the other -
three generations of women.
I feel like I haven’t fully appreciated that until now
So it goes.
I think about how you were there at my birth
(counting seconds between contractions)
We sit here counting the seconds between your breaths,
Three seconds, sometimes four.
Every now and then its longer
and we pause. Is it now?
But then your chest rallies
and you take in another breath.
We wait:
three seconds, sometimes four.
So it goes.
***
Like Honey
I see old women, and I cry
I see mothers with their running children, and I cry
I see your art auctioned online, and I cry
Hearing mom say: I need to close an account, my mother has died -
makes me cry
Her grief is so thick it engulfs her, drowns her
like honey, she wades through it
It holds her and suspends her
I see mom mourn you, and I cry
Like a child lost in a grocery store
Like a child afraid of the dark
Like a child -
she longs for you.
Her grief is thick like honey
Her grief is sweet like honey
