This is the poem I wrote for my mother and read at her memorial on Saturday.
I Remember
By Melissa Palma
I remember a wild childhood
barefoot, exploring flowers, insects and rocks on the grass, in the sun, up close
finding possums on our nature trail
swimming hanging on to wolfie’s fur
listening for woodpeckers and killdeer
crossing the country road to gather eggs from the coop and visit the piglets
eating a regular dose of ipecac with every new poisonous plant I consumed
being barefoot and happy and free
I remember mom talking to everyone around her, like at her recent appointments at the cancer center-
“I like your pin. Is that a chickadee? Have you seen any blue birds this summer? We got babies this year. Do your Baltimore oriels prefer orange slices or grape jelly? Oh yeah? You live off Huron River Drive? You must know the Finley’s. They live over there too. Your maiden name is Struble? So is mine. We must be cousins.”
and on and on and on like this, with everyone
I remember an open door
never locked
no one knocked
our house was open to anyone, a refuge from the trouble in their life
our mom was the cool mom because she let you be you
always accepting and never judging
you could be fully yourself
I remember how special she made us all feel
I remember her adventurous spirit
taking us to Mexico to ride horses on the beach
Hawaii to explore volcanoes
Chile to try native fish head soup
and just one year ago, St. John to snorkel
and mom probably had cancer but we didn’t know it yet
and we handled the hurricane with grace
fully embracing our time together
I remember talking to mom almost every day for the last 40 years
talking about plans for the day, nothing special
and how I almost called her today, forgetting for a moment that she won’t ever answer
that we can’t talk about nothing special anymore
I remember my mom’s spunk, her feistiness
her boundless energy that inevitably inspired awe
she never sat still –
not until the very end
I remember her warm smile
her dry, biting, smart ass sense of humor that she inherited from my barber grandfather
and how every summer, we went to Bois Blanc where mom and I sat with our feet dangling out the back of the rusted red truck, driving down the one dirt road, singing-
Down by the old (not the new but the old)
Mill stream (not the river but the stream)
Where I first (not the second but the first)
Met you (not me but you)
I remember being so proud of my mom
she was an incredible phys. ed. teacher
she bought sneakers in all sizes for the kids who didn’t have any
she walked around the cafeteria using reverse psychology, just daring kids to try their broccoli and not love it
she had a library in her gym of women, physically challenged and minority athletes and when students read a book, she gave them a U of M cup
I remember my mom on the ground, in the dirt, in the garden
humming silly songs in the kitchen as she made homemade spatzen to go with the sauerkraut
deadheading flowers as she walked down Main Street
teaching me, my friends, my children,
anyone near her was a beneficiary of her endless love of teaching
and I remember the expanse of her love of her grandchildren
and their love of her as they bound to her excitedly exclaiming “Nana! Nana! Guess what?” as they jump into her lap, snuggle in and feel the loving warmth enveloping their little bodies
My mom was giving, loving, caring
compassionate, laughing, sharing
I remember loving her deeply
caressing her forehead
telling her to relax, that it’d be ok
and now it is, for her
she is free from pain and fear and for that I am grateful
but right now
it doesn’t feel ok for me
I miss her
I’m sad I have to remember
wanting the past to be present
wishing for a future tense with my mom
