A Woman Who Loved Babies

Elsie and Marion

How to remember my mother?

As the surrounder,

the enfolder,

the one who held me

in the womb of her desire?

Every child should inherit such Paradise,

even a Paradise

so surely

lost.

Or shall I remember my mother

scolding,

shaming,

her voice ripe with disgust.

“You didn’t used to do that when you were little!”

Perhaps I was three at the time.

No more than four.

I’ve forgotten what terrible thing I had done,

but I remember having just emerged

from the bathroom,

so my offence must have had to do

with the fascinating stuff

a body can produce.

I can still feel her immensity,

all five tall feet of her.

And I remember

the way I stood,

pretending uncaring,

beneath the boulder

of her disappointment.

I remember, too, my unspoken response.

But don’t you know?

Little kids don’t know how to do

that?

(Whatever that was.)

And then another thought,

one that cut clean

as a knife:

Mommy liked me better

when I was

little.

Thus I embarked on life accompanied by

the sure knowledge

that by growing 

stronger,

bigger,

older,

more competent,

I abandoned the Eden of my mother’s affection.

I could never be little enough,

dependent enough,

needy enough

to please her

again.