What I Learned From My Mother by Kimberly Coverly

What I Learned From My Mother by Kimberly Coverly

I learned from my mother how to organize,

Life into file folders, color coded,

Highlighter staining the tiny ridges of her fingers.

I learned to never over book,

Even if it means saying no to the ones you love,

Watching disappointment on their faces,

Never easy, but necessary nonetheless.

I learned to allocate money into different funds,

Spend hard earned cash on luxuries,

Not being ashamed that you can afford,

Yet to find the beauty in a second hand outfit,

Musk still lingering in the wrinkles,

A stain from the marinara the night before,

Dribbled on the front of the striped shirt.

I learned that love is transactional,

A process of give and take that has no victors,

Losing is not an option, only adaptation.

I learned that no matter the distance,

Family is close to the heart,

Whether it be in the whoosh of your finger

Across a brown paper package,

Or a call home just to say “How is it going?”,

Family must remain forever true,

To those who wish to get anywhere in life.

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What I Learned From My Mother by Julia Kasdorf

I learned from my mother how to love

the living, to have plenty of vases on hand

in case you have to rush to the hospital

with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants

still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars

large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole

grieving household, to cube home-canned pears

and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins

and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.

I learned to attend viewings even if I didn’t know

the deceased, to press the moist hands

of the living, to look in their eyes and offer

sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.

I learned that whatever we say means nothing,

what anyone will remember is that we came.

I learned to believe I had the power to ease

awful pains materially like an angel.

Like a doctor, I learned to create

from another’s suffering my own usefulness, and once

you know how to do this, you can never refuse.

To every house you enter, you must offer

healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,

the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.