Moms in Hell

Mom collected and sold 18th-century American antiques. She would have loved this 1868 Winslow Homer,
Artists Sketching in the White Mountains

MOVING PICTURE



I once had in my home
a Hoosier Cupboard much like this

 God, I thank you for the mom you lent me to, and for
too short a time it sometimes seems... much more I
could have learned from her about serenity, I find,
now that I know what she went through. Well. What
an education from my infancy, to see her resurrected
from her private hell, and learn to celebrate her triumph.

Oh, I hated her and spurned her hugs and turned to
Dad for love instead. I only knew that she had left
and when she stayed she drank too much and stank
of wine and cigarettes and that the house was always
an embarrassment (I’d yet to learn that life itself is
messy). Well — except my siblings’ rooms and
Daddy’s dresser — little islands gleaming in their
tidiness amid the chaos that my mother left for Alma
to bring order out of, goddess that she was, on
Tuesdays, nine to five, and Friday afternoons.

Dear God, I praise you for this mother and the love
she kept in escrow for me when I came of age, and
that I did so while she lived; I thank you that we
had those blissful years of friendship. When I carried
Marian, I asked her, I remember, “What if I don’t love
my baby?” (I was, after all, the youngest. What could
I know of an infant’s sweet compelling winsomeness?
I’d been unlovable enough myself, unkind, to punish
her, as if she didn't have her share and more of
torment.) Well, she said. I promise, you would walk
through fire — no, you would run through hell to save
your child. And so I have, for all of them. And so I
would again. A mother suffers every pang her children

feel, and doubly, till she learns surrender.





Mom had a corner pie cupboard filled with this type of pottery, called "flow blue,"
which originated in 18th-century Staffordshire, England



Father-Mother, thank you for the scent of Shalimar that

sometimes drifts by... through the window... from the

sky. And thank you for the memories, which are not

fixed like pictures in a book; they are alive, as she is,

very near, I often sense. Well. I can see her now, the

way she’d sit, one leg tucked under her, in tennies on

her favorite chair, and how I wish I hadn’t sold it

years ago to pay the rent. She would have told me to,



Mom's chair, or close enough. This one is from
the website http://www.efi-costarica.com/. It's a
late-19th-century Eastlake; Mom's was
upholstered in dark blue veltet

 however. No regrets, then. Now she sits on air.


Creator, thank you for my funny mom, who would
have looked around, as I do now, at papers, manuscripts, and
laundry, at the baskets full of unrelated stuff and sundries,
at the dishes, pots, and pans; and she would not have been
dismayed. Well. She had Dad, I have three cats. I
can’t say Dad was much more help than they are, not

indoors, at any rate, although he kept the bills paid,

did the yard, and loved us all inordinately, as fathers

must. He didn’t dust, however, nor did Mom, except

for company, and that, once I had learned how wise

she was, how rare and good, was fine with me.

Cat People

Find sample blogs on a gazillion topics at Alpha Inventions

Having Cats

This is gratitude —God

Bob, who played a hardass, at the core was

unabashedly a cat adorer. He would pat

our pet (called Melba) fondly, pick her up,

and hold her in his lap, and then they’d

have a kissy-face fest; afterward, she’d

settle in and let him scratch behind her

ears, her throat and belly. “Oh, her motor’s

running,” he would tell me, quite

unnecessarily— Who couldn’t hear it? All

the hair on Melba’s winter coat would

vibrate, eloquent of her contentment.

If you’ve ever known a yellow Labrador

quite well, you’ve known nobility, not in

the sense of being uppity but in the grace of

his or her affection, and the loyalty.

Indeed, they are a noble breed, with an

uncanny way of yielding to your needs and

to each other, giving place to friend or

brother who is ailing, without fanfare

vacating the sunny spot upon the sofa.

That’s their way, to serve and love and lick

your face, and it is heavenly, if you don't

mind saliva on your chin.

I left my Labradors behind— a sad mistake,

but now it’s done. I have two cats, born in

the neighborhood and feral when I took

them in. They clawed their cage, escaped,

and left my place in tatters on their

rampage. Now they’re tame as paper dolls,

but more affectionate than any cat I’ve

known before. They like to tread upon my

keyboard, typing kitty nonsense, not the

Oxford English Dictionary or a word like

K-A-T. Unfortunately, they’re still scared of

strangers, but they take care of each other

in the way of cats, which is to lick away

imaginary ear mites and remove detritus

where they find it. When you live alone,

they’re pleasant to come home to, fun to

play “Where Did the Mouse Go” with,

delightful when their motors run. One dark

night, when I looked away, they stole my

heart.

In my new apartment, how they love to lie

in sunny windows, light breeze ruffling

their fur. There’s little of their wildness left.

I get to feel a bit of pride that they’re inside

and safe instead of foraging for food and on

the prowl, begetting future generations.

Who would hold them then, have kitty

conversations with them, wake them from

their naps for supper, make their motors

run? Nobody. Not a soul. No one at all.

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