Mother-daughter selfie, circa 1986. |
In 7th grade I was in the midst of my southern belle kick. I made a hairnet for myself out of a pair of pantyhose and flounced around in one of my mother's old bridesmaid dresses and called her Miss Barbara with such a sweet drawl you'd have sworn I was born and bred in Georgia. After a while, I got lazy, dropped the accent and abbreviated my name for her to M.B., and then just Em.
I still call her that.
A Pantoum for Em
If I were a mother to my mother
I'd brush her hair until it shone like newly polished shoesand I'd curl her bangs around my finger,
and weave her hair into two dark braids
I'd brush her hair until it shone like newly polished shoes
I’d kiss her cheek and send her outside to playand weave her hair into two dark braids
and watch her race the breeze
I’d kiss her cheek and send her outside to play
and I'd iron the pleats of her red plaid skirtand watch her race the breeze
and when she fell I’d forget to breathe
and I'd iron the pleats of her red plaid skirt
and I'd sew a button on her prim white blouseand when she fell I’d forget to breathe
and press her wet face to me
and I'd sew a button on her prim white blouse
and I'd feel the sun on my faceand press her wet face to me
her small-girl's sorrow spreading like a stain inside my body
and I'd feel the sun on my face
and I'd curl her bangs around my fingerher small-girl's sorrow spreading like a stain inside my body
if I were a mother to my mother.