I don't write poetry. I don't have the knack to hone words that succinctly. I appreciate and sometimes envy those who write poetry well. I wish I had Marie's talent for verse. There are many times when my experiences deserve the clarity and potent emotion of poetry. My Mother's spoon deserves poetry.
I went back to Philly in May. During that visit, I had to confront a number of terribly emotional things. My Aunt, my Mother's last surviving sibling, is fading from
Alzheimer's disease. I won't be able to call her anymore and while away our time while choopping onions making sunday dinner or talk about how our stuffing is turning out for Thanksgiving. I talked to her because Mom's been gone for over ten years. For all my life, I talked to a Harris sister about stuffing or sweet potato pies or potato salad. I won't be doing that this year.
During that same trip, I unexpectedly encountered boxes of my mother's life that I was going to ship to LA after we moved. I was glad that we weren't able to ship those boxes then. It meant I could give my brother a lot of what was left of Mom's life. He had a home that was a family hub. Those pieces needed to be at holiday dinners again. But I kept my Mother's favorite mixing spoon. When I saw that spoon, I really wished I could write poetry.
No one knows where it came from. It could have been from a set belonging to the rich folk Mom and Grandmom did Days' work for. It could have been from the Strawbridges' or it could have been a wedding gift. She got a lot of nice things when she married.
All I knew was that was the spoon that made the potato salad and stuffings for the major events of my life. When it came out, there would be a family gathering of some sort. And wether it was a holiday or a funeral, there would be a lot of good food in a big bowl and there would be a lot of drinking and laughter. Sometimes, there wasn't enough money to make a gathering, but it would always get done somehow. And everyone would have a good time. I was an adult before I found out how much those good times cost and how often our family couldn't afford them. That made them all the more dear somehow. And it explains my pathological need to entertain. It explains why I cry making potato salad.
But I think finding that spoon deserves poetry, not just potato salad. The Harris Sisters deserve verse for bringing civility and style everywhere they went and for finding a way to have celebrations that made people happy and filled memories when they had almost nothing. But I don't write verse well, so I do my best with food that I remember from childhood and celebrations for my friends even when I can't afford it. I only hope that I have inherited their sense of civility and style.
Maybe someday, Marie's great gift will rub off and me. My first poem will be about that spoon.
