Memories of My Mom (Gail Taylor)

Memories of My Mom


Marvelous Mavis... what was in that name?
Dad would call her Alma or that woman
when he was impatiently waiting for her
Her brother, Jeff, nicknamed her Tamer
for all her feistiness and determination
She was Aunt Mavis to many,
great grandma to six
She has been Mom to five,
grandma to four 
and she has been called a blessing
by the countless children in the hospital
who wear her hats and slippers
or play with her crocheted animals
She was called a radical by the Weed Man
or maybe something worse
She was called friend by her neighbours
and Miss Daisy by the cab drivers
with whom she has long conversations
but most of all she was called Love
                    by all those whose lives she has touched.
Mom died Sunday night.

--

Gail Taylor


       

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Ursula Pflug has left a new comment on your post "Memories of My Mom (Gail Taylor)":

Blessings, Chris.


Posted by Ursula Pflug to Riffs & Ripples from ZenRiver Gardens at 14 January 2014 20:28

On Becoming Seventy: Gail Taylor

Guest essay by Gail Taylor:

HearOurWords

Monday, May 13, 2013

On Becoming Seventy

Becoming 70 now is knocking on my door at night reminding of his eventuality with aches in my back and stiffness in my joints. Even though I protest vehemently that I am not ready, he chooses to turn a deaf ear or at least remind me that my ear in fact already does not adequately catch all the subtle nuances of the spoken word.  And what will he do, I ask you, if I stubbornly dig in my heels and wrap my arms around the banister?  Perhaps just to prove my point I will go to the very top of that banister and ride it to its base.  Alas Becoming 70 reminds me that I traded in that ounce of spunk and self determination back when I was in my fifties for a ride on the merry-go-round instead of the thrill of the roller coaster.  So here I wait for the inevitable, its odds of close proximity increasing like the labouring of my breath with each step I take.

Surely, there must be advantages to Becoming 70.  I pause and ruminate about the subject in hopes of some inspired thought, but alas back when I was in my twenties, logical thought was traded off in a deal worked out with hands of greed.  Is there nothing that I have not already sacrificed on the altar of living life to its fullest?  Perhaps I left a bread crumb trail that will allow me to retrace back my steps to another time when some promise lined the road ahead.
 

The guest not wanted on this trip surely must be fear.  Since the unknown is not some newly created creature suddenly ready to pounce when I am least expecting it to do so, I do not understand this newly found trepidation. That being the case, this fear must then be a different creature, an ear worm whose haunting chant just beckons there for me, lulling me into an hypnotic stance, a stance from which some day I will not awaken.  
 

Becoming 70 hears my cries of confusion and gently holds my hand as we stand atop that escarpment peering back those many years. Interestingly, I can see that not only unease lays among the fallen leaves; there is love and possibility lurking in the gentle knobs that will become the buds of tomorrow's spring branches. Still wasted moments of bitter words hang like curing carcasses from the limbs and I can see that how I choose to spend what is left of my journey is still largely up to me.  There is much that I know can now turn a blind eye to such as the dust bunnies under my bed.  I can continue to research and rant about  the injustices I discover or I can toddle off to tea parties. Three guesses which route you think I will take.  Yes indeed, I have retired to take up ranting and raving and

so far it sure beats working, except for the pay that is.

1 comment:

Chris Faiers/cricketMay 13, 2013 at 8:45 PM

Gail, I'm laughing & crying, ruminating,ranting & raving along with you : )

At the end of last June I was able to sing the Beatles' song "When I'm 64" as a member of a club
I never thought I'd join!

Guess we're still living the '60s experience in our sixties!
peace & poetry power!
Chris ... & Chase (who is well into his 90s in human years)

Your Legacy - Gail Taylor

Your Legacy

By Gail Taylor
 

Well, my love, what have you left me with?
Could it be your collection of gatherings-
the antique car that doesn’t run,
an extra motor just in case
die-cast cars and trucks,
coins of unknown value,
or that amazing array of bolts, nails and screws
stored indiscriminately in cans and jars.
Perhaps it is the puddle of motor oil
you never got around to cleaning up.

Sitting here sifting through the clutter,
I suddenly found what you have left me with
It is not the wounded girl
the one in me you rescued
from the memories of an attack
the betrayal of a sick old man’s desires
the girl you nourished to a new passions
removed the years of senseless guilt
by convincing her it was okay to giggle
even in the throes of making love;
the one who you gathered up
with all her years of reproach and blame
and gently nurtured to become a woman

No, looking back I know I always wondered
could there, would there be a time,
as you and I aged, when he would return
and I would smell him in your smells
see him in your eyes…feel only his groping hands;
there could have been no wound greater
than to look at your aging features
and somehow see him reflected there.
The legacy that you have left me with, my love
What I found amid the clutter
that I didn’t know was there
What you have really left me with
Is the answer to my question
I will never need to know.



I selected this poem for publication in the next issue of Quinte Arts Council's tabloid
Umbrella. This is such a powerful poem that I decided to post it on my blog as well.

Apologies to Gail for the change in layout - my system wouldn't accept her far more
interesting styling.
- Chris

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