Here Comes Treble: Our Mother
On a very special day Isabel Bradley pays a moving poetic tribute to her mother.
The sun shone from a brilliant autumn sky, the trees that we passed as we drove to the retirement village poured a constant stream of rustling yellow, red and brown leaves onto the streets ahead of us.
At the village, the dining room rang with the chatter and laughter of those who lived in the village, their children and their grandchildren. It was Mothers’ Day, Sunday 11 May. My little mother, who’s been shorter than me for most of my life, was seated at her usual table, in the company of a couple of long-time friends, waiting for her family to arrive. We kissed her, and presented her with her card and all the other paraphernalia we’d brought for her, pens, writing paper, a book I thought she may enjoy and some of my articles for her to read.
Next to arrive were my daughter, Diane, and her most recent partner, Shawn. Hugs and kisses were exchanged all ‘round. Mom was presented with a bouquet of red-tipped white roses, and I was given a pot of tiny plants which, I was assured, were daffodils, set to bloom in a few months’ time.
Bergen, my son, was the last to arrive, bearing bouquets of yellow roses and yellow and white chrysanthemums for his grandmother and me. Being normal women, Mom and I were delighted, while mothers and grandmothers around us cast envious eyes on our flower-laden table.
Though I’m his wife, not his mother, Leon gave me a beautiful silver treble clef pendant, which will be worn often with pride and delight.
Mothers’ Day is apparently the day in America when more telephone calls are made than over Christmas, and for which more cards are sold. It’s certainly a much commercialised day in South Africa. However, our family’s Mothers’ Day this year was made special by the warmth and love that flowed in the family circle, drawing in the ‘old’ friends who sat with us, and centred on my mother.
Of course, there’s no better way for a writer to celebrate her mother than to write a poem, which I did:
Our Mother
Mother’s day’s a better day than most
To talk about our Mother –
She cuddled us as little children,
Kissed our scraped knees better
With ‘red stuff’ and plasters – and love.
She pampered us,
Waited on us hand and foot
When childhood ailments laid us low.
She made sacrifices,
Working so hard, never buying new clothes,
So that my brother and I could study music.
She cooked our favourite food –
Dish after dish for fussy little me,
Until she was happy I’d eaten enough.
She wrote notes to our teachers
To excuse us from nasty physical education classes
And horrid detentions after school.
She came to every concert we played,
Clapping loudly, swelling with pride –
Even when we didn’t play our best.
She’s the mother who watched our adventures
With those of the opposite gender,
Never saying a word of criticism,
Accepting our choices of life-partners
And loving them as she loves us.
As a grandmother she’s a delight,
Her face lights up when she sees our children –
And our grandchildren!
Our mother always encourages us,
Always loves us, no matter what we do.
While being our support and safety-net,
Our Mother managed to always be – herself,
Loving, and loved by everyone she met,
Kind and considerate, helping those less fortunate.
She made a calling of being School Secretary,
Knew everyone in the suburb,
Listened to all their troubles and shared their joys.
She ran the church choir,
And a ladies’ choir –
all its members her grey-haired ‘girls’.
Now that her body is slowing down,
She spends her spare time using up the ink
In ballpoint pens, doing crossword puzzles;
She reads and re-reads her favourite books –
The modern ones are too full
Of sex, violence and nasty language.
She still loves and is loved
By everyone around her.
No one could have a better mother
Than Our Mother!
Happy Mothers’ Day!
Until next week, ‘here comes Treble!’
© Copyright Reserved
by Isabel Bradley
