Em

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 few years ago a poem I wrote for my mother won a prize from the Oregon Poetry Association. In this piece I imagine what it would be like "If I were a mother to my mother," which is my way of saying to her "Thank you" - for the fun, the kindness, the care, the food, not to mention the matching shoes.

A Pantoum for Em

If I were a mother to my mother

I'd brush her hair until it shone like newly polished shoes
and 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 play
and 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 skirt
and 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 blouse
and 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 face
and 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 finger
her small-girl's sorrow spreading like a stain inside my body
if I were a mother to my mother.