photo by Paul Mayer
BY KIMBERLY MAYER
It was my mother who prompted me to bring home the poinsettia plant this week. We will be going away for the holidays, but she was with me at the market and couldn’t resist the display.
Mom’s with me all the time now.
“O.K., O.K.” I said, “but we’re going to do it a little differently this year.” I sound like the mother now.
Typically I go for the creamy white, and she, the fire engine red. Together we took home the faded pink and we’re loving it. It lifts color from the rug and puts a blush on the complexion of everyone in the room.
Not too long ago I had to haggle with time zones, flight schedules, and getting to and from airports. Now she’s here, as I said. A companion for me in my rather reclusive life as a writer on a sparsely populated island, especially in winter.
Without her I’d be lonely.
Mom doesn’t fall ill anymore, she’s simply well. We figure out what to wear, share books, plan menus, and set spectacular tables. She’s tickled to find her silver here and thrilled when we use it. No matter how many guests, there is always room for Mom at the table.
She’s a part of me now, particularly outdoors. I always knew Mom would love this place. Yesterday we took it upon ourselves to plant the narcissi. That enormous bag of bulbs had been sitting on the floor of the mud room for two months. I had almost forgotten about it, but she remembered. We took an eyesore, a barren bank on the side of the drive, and popped into the ground 30 trumpet daffodil to bloom in early spring, 30 in mid spring, and 30 in late spring. Mom was almost giddy. The weather was raw and I was just happy to see she wasn’t cold and her back didn’t ache in the digging.
It’s my back now that’s going.
I know of nothing like bulbs for staying forward looking in life. Growing amaryllis bulbs indoors in the Christmas season is a tradition mom instilled in us years ago. There are times when I would gladly forego everything about the holiday but that. I measure my days by its stalks.
Likewise that dirt bank in the drive is going to pull us through the winter months, I just know it. There the bulbs will rise like a standing ovation, proclaiming there will always be another spring.
One way or another.
a little elbow room
a little elbow room 
A beautiful post Kim. Love you
Sent from my iPad
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Thank you, Deb. It was a long couple of months to get to this place, as you know.
My sister, Deb Loomis, shared this with me. It rings with such familiarity. It isn’t easy, but there are comforting moments. 💞
Yes, I remember, and how wonderful to hear from you. Thank you.
Just lovely writing, Kim. Once again! Deb D.
Thank you, Deb. Means so much to me.
Kim, Hi. I just read this. Lovely, again! I especially love the image of the bulbs rising like a standing ovation…that’s gorgeous.
Thanks, Katie. I like to think I’ll see you too in spring.
Yes!
This is so beautiful…and my mom says Lois always added alot of love and light at a table..my recollection also is of Suffield pervaded by the garden club and driving by covies of women planting and tending on all fours..I love the comfort of your imaginary mother and am reminded of how I had to revisit a young child’s separation anxiety when Miggs departed. Here is a fictional depiction of the sense of loss. Remember our visits to NYC?
Separation Anxiety
Sunset on New York’s skyline as
ten years old, I watch
the march of people,
honking cars,
from 32nd floor window,
tense behind black-rimmed glasses.
Early autumn air
conjures mother’s fragrance,
tousling my hair while I count
her imagined, high-heeled
steps from front door,
elevator, subway, office, and return.
To unlock the pattern of her goings and comings,
I fixate on the mantel’s digital clock,
recall a first-grade circle
with cotton hands crayoned for her
on a paper plate.
Hearing a phantom sound,
I hallucinate on her key
scraping the lock.
Looking forward to a picture of the narcissi on the bank as they come to full attention. love as always, Jane
How special to see you and be with you, Janie. We mustn’t ever wait so long. Love that you are writing poems. Indeed I heard your mother’s pumps on the steps. Send me more!
Please let’s carve out more time..to sort old memories out and to create new ones…perhaps Wiggins Tavern was another soul and just another page from our playbook…but there were so many where I imagined you there or you were there in spirit..always have loved your writing…an inspiration for us all…xxoo
Lovely, KIM. You expressed the sentiments all of us feel who have lost our mothers. I lost mine so long ago now, but she is still my constant companion!
Thank you, Christine. I can see that it isn’t going away, and for that I am only grateful.
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