I Remember the Lessons

I don’t remember the first time I used my voice
or how it might have sounded
But she does.
She remembers because
she knew it meant I was awake and alive and already starting to
define
myself.

I don’t remember my first steps or
the way my legs finally found out what they’re for
But she does.

She remembers because
my hand was holding hers.
And in the silent space between our palms

I learned everything I needed to know about

trust.

I don’t remember cutting teeth
or throwing my first fit.
I don’t remember my first word or whether it

made sense to anyone but her.

I don’t remember the first time I rode in a car
or just exactly how I got this scar above my eye
and I
don’t really know why I
called it my “purple” blanket when it was every color but, But
she does.
She remembers because
that’s what mothers do.
They have a place inside that holds the history
of you.

There’s a lot I do remember, though…

Like standing knee-deep in late December snow
and her,
yelling from the front door of the house on 63rd
that I

wasn’t wearing “enough of a coat”
as if I’d managed to come out in only the sleeves.

I remember supermarket Saturdays,
riding around in the bottom of the cart
while she pushed
and how she always let me get a Mad magazine

before we checked out.

I remember learning how to swim
with my arms around her neck

while I kicked

and sputtered

and screamed like a little girl.

I remember Memorial Days,
trips to Iowa to visit the graves
and paying my respects to people I’d never met.
(which really didn’t matter because I was told that they were family
and that was all I needed to know.)

I remember walking to school on the first day of kindergarten
with my folks on either side of me
tackling my acrophobia on the overpass,
with my

nap-time rug tucked snugly under my arm and
how it all had something to do with fear being merely an obstacle.

And years later,
at high school graduation,
my now-divorced parents again on either side of me
beaming
and
proud.

And me in between them,
witnessing firsthand
the true nature of civility
and grace.

I remember the lessons.

The ones she taught
and the ones we learned together.
The ones that stuck whether
I was at home
or out in the world somewhere.

In death, my father taught me
how to be a man.
But in life my mother taught me
how to be a human being.

Yes, I remember her lessons.

And they will serve my children well someday…

-IMBA

Mother's Day, 2006