Mother's Day [by Terence Winch]

Mother’s Day

 

My mother did not live to be a hundred
like the old nuns in the Sacred Heart
convent, sheltered from life. She was
fifty-five when she died. I was the baby
of the family. It does not seem so long
ago to me that I snuck into bed
between her and my father, no greater
antidote to fear than that. Life is not
a slow read. We speed through it,
pages flipping. After her funeral,
I hated the smell of flowers.

She used to make my brother take me
to the movies to help me breathe
in the cool dark of the air-conditioned Elsmere.
Now all I want to do is watch movies in bed,
central air humming through the house. I cried
so much when she died that it still embarrasses me.

 

She used to visit me in my dreams,
even sometimes speaking to me from
the beyond. But I haven’t seen
or heard from her in years.

My own heart thumps
wildly in my chest sometimes,
when I think about the story ending.

My arms are swollen from allergy shots,
my son examining bumblebees
in the backyard. I inhale as deeply as I can.
Flowers don’t bother me anymore.

 

[This poem was written, I think, ca. 2000. The photo shows me, checking the time, and my best friend, Dennis O'Toole, sitting on my mother's lap in 1948 in Rockaway Beach, NYC. My mother was Bridie Flynn from Co. Galway, Ireland.]

Comments

[The Best American Poetry]

Beautiful. -- DL

[Abbie]

Beautiful and poignant. I’m sure she would be very proud of the musician, father, and poet you have become.

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, Abbie.

[Terence Winch]

Thank you, DL.

[lally]

a brilliant evocation of the way time and memories harmonize to create the melody of our lives....I wish I'd known her, though ever since we met over forty years ago, I feel as though I do...

[Terence Winch]

Thank you, mo chara.

[Dom]

Evocative indeed. Glad you had the visits man. Likely the foundation for the words of comfort and peace you offer me.

[Terence Winch]

Thank you, Mr. Murray.

[Dr. Earle Hitchner]

Terence Winch’s “Mother’s Day” poem reminded me of his outstanding 2004 book, "That Special Place: New World Irish Stories." I beg his and all BAP blog readers’ indulgence in lifting the following from my Irish Echo review of that book: “Nothing in 'That Special Place' is more moving than the author’s descriptions of his mother, who suffered terribly near the end of the cancer that killed her when she was 55 and he was 16. ‘My mother died in January of 1962, before people like us had things like tape recorders,’ Winch writes. ‘As far as I know, her voice was never recorded. I long now to hear what she sounded like. Did she have much of a brogue? Did she sound smart, funny? I can’t remember at all what her voice was like.’” Part of the reason you’re so accomplished a writer, Terence, is to give your voice to hers. It’s also part of what you give all of us: “the soul’s story.” I’ll wager Bridie was whispering all along.

[Terence Winch]

Earle---Thank you so much for this lovely and, as always, insightful response.

[Tom Murphy]

Beautiful, simply beautiful

[Terence Winch]

Thank you, Tomas.