Mothering
How long does it take to relinquish a lifetime of possessions?
Tarnished candlesticks intricately etched with fading scrollwork,
delicate Wedgwood china, scallop-shaped with a floral motif
(“a timeless design”),
nicked mahogany furniture, mud brown and heavy as regret.
(“They just don’t make things like they used to.”)
Adulthood unfolded in the requisite ways
graduations, marriage, children, endless to-do lists.
All the while my mother was slowly unloading,
writing down, in her precise script, the combination to her lock box
on tiny scraps of paper
I misplaced as soon as I got home.
Jewelry long hidden in the fraying pockets of abandoned nightgowns,
tightly wrapped in squares of tissue,
presented with a flourish and a cautionary tale
(“Diamonds should be handed down among daughters.”)
Now, while she extols the virtues of her burial plot
like a seasoned real estate professional,
(“A hilltop location with a great view!”)
I am left to consider my mother’s mortality,
the unimaginable inevitability of a reversal of roles.
And in this slow losing I am finding
that this mother well mothered
is a daughter in the end.
