Of All The Angels

Nina Simone begins her autobiography I Put A Spell On You with the following sentiment, “When I used to get blue years ago, James Baldwin would say the same thing to me each time, “This is the world you have made for yourself Nina, now you have to live in it.” Jimmy was always a man to see things as they really are and his gaze would never flinch no matter how unpleasant the things he saw were.”

My daughter drew a cartoon called Li’l Fuckup, whose motto was “I made my bed. Now I must lie in it.”

My Mother would just say, ” Make your bed.”

Today is my Mother’s birthday. She would have been 104 years old. I am positive she did not want to live to that age. Her mother, my Nana, always said she would live to 85. Then she died a month or so short of that goal.

We all make our own bed, even if we share it with someone else. You can’t blame your Mother. You can’t rail on about your Father. It is never your partner’s fault. It is certainly not the fault of your children or even your friends.

As joined at the hips as we may be, this is the world we have made for ourselves.

You can lie about it. You can blame your problems on everyone, but the bossa nova, but it doesn’t change the fact, you have to live with your choices. My Mother would never have wanted to live to 104, a family sentiment I share.

July 25th 2014 was the day she left this astral plane, and boarded the Mothership. She was 93. Every year I struggle to remember the day of departure, but I never forget her birthday. March 13, 1921.

On the one hundredth anniversary of her birthday, I wrote this poem for her.

OF ALL THE ANGELS

Of all the angels,

All the saints through time

Would they remember her?

My Mother would have been 100 years old today.

Would they remember her impish smile

Her clear blue eyes

All the tears cried and not cried

All the memories we cherish

And those which are just out of grasp

I remember her voice

Soft, almost musical, whispering love

The cool touch of her hands

As she placed a damp cloth on my fevered brow

The arms that held me

The arms that still hold me, somehow

How I struggle to remember

Every kiss good night

Every letter arriving at just the right moment

When we were hungry or cold

She did her best to teach me right and wrong

“Boys are simple

Girls are sneaky”

These words she believed

Do unto other as others do unto you

Lord grant me the wisdom …..to know the difference

I look at the old photos but they are not her

They look like her

But the pictures lack the feels, the smells, the whispers.

I remember how she went back to school in her fifties

Because she wanted to find out if she could still think -

Even after the seven children and my father

But lo and behold - her mind was beautifully creative and intelligent

Her heart and mind sparkled

She donated her time to her church

To her hospice group

The five stages- Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance

Sharing her kindness with strangers.

And yet, she had a cold reserved side.

Her humor was very dry

She could seem lost In her thoughts

Then dish out a sharp cold remark like

“That woman”

and then a sound of disgust—

the word “uggh” does not do her justice.

Later, much later, when her heart beat slower

And her mind went somewhere else

a place we could never go,

We would visit her, get her to smile for a while.

“You know why I’m here?

Because I can’t remember shit.”

It was a place we could never go.

A place we were afraid to go,

as if we might get trapped there as well.

I imagined this place to be dark and empty

Her essence being consumed from within

But what if I was wrong…

Perhaps her mind was like the balls of yarn, the scraps of gingham cloth

That she used to make matching Easter outfits for my sisters

The Simplicity patterns-

“Do you want us to get rid of this stuff?

No. I might get to it, someday.”

Then that far away look.

We would come home from school and smell the hot bread baking

And we would cut large pieces, butter and jam and it was heaven

She would entertain all my sister’s boyfriends

Feeding them with bread and laughter.

I remember her cooking and baking

How she would surprise us when

She would invent new recipes

Like the fondu French toast

So much laughing

And singing

Her high voice singing in the car with my father

Hallelujah I’m a Bum

I’ve got sixpence

Jolly jolly sixpence

To last me all my life

I’ve got tuppence to spend

And tuppence to lend

And tuppence to send home to my wife

Poor wife

No tears have I to grieve me

No pretty little girls to deceive me

I’m as happy

As the day

When a sailor gets his pay

when I go rolling rolling home

Dead drunk.

How inappropriate in the rear view mirror these songs were

But we all loved to sing them

Dead drunk- whatever that meant.

So how do I remember and honor you

On this day, which is 100 years since the day of your birth?

I found a horoscope for someone born on your day

and it rings true: ( I changed the tense)

You Were Born Today, March 13:

You have a reserved, respectable character with quiet charm.

You have an unusually strong awareness

and compassion for others’ suffering.

A mind of your own, and independence to boot.

Family was important to you, and you would work tirelessly for it.

Even if you had a lot, you rarely took it for granted.

You drew on your inner wisdom or sixth sense

You had many hidden or unacknowledged talents.

You attracted loving relationships

You widened your mind through unusual or different experiences

You gave with generosity and compassion

You made personal sacrifices

for what you believed to be the greater good.

You were not perfect

Who is?

But you were the perfect Mother.

100 years of love, my Josephine

Who just wanted people to call her Jo.