Isaiah 43:18-19: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”
Chris Margos of Spiritual Thursday suggested this verse to write about this month. With Mother’s Day big and bright in every gift store, it’s hard not to think of my first Mother’s Day without a mother. The sadness I feel; however, is calmed by being surrounded by the best mothers I know, my daughters. All three of them are in the deep throes of motherhood, juggling it all, with professional lives and kids, and they are crushing it!
Yesterday I went shopping with my youngest daughter. The other women in the store and dressing room were charmed by her interest in finding me some cute new clothes. Martha was happily taking pictures of me and texting her sisters. It was a sweet scene, I admit. I am blessed they all want to spend time with me (and help me dress better!)
A page of my new book is dedicated to my mother, who my oldest daughter renamed as GiGi when she made her a great grandmother. My illustrator, Drew Beech, used a photo of my mother with my daughter as a child to create the illustration.
See, Mom! I am doing a new thing! I love that I can share my mother every time I read aloud my book. After all, it was in her lap that I became a reader.
For Poetry Friday, I am in with an Elegy for Mothers using the duplex form created by Jericho Brown. This poem is dedicated to all who have lost a mother, and every mother who has lost a child.
Elegy for Mothers (A Duplex)
after Jericho Brown
The rain sounds like a mother weeping,
softly kissing away touches of pain.
Mother washes away pain with a kiss
as her child nestles in her embrace.
The child will leave her embrace someday—
Memory echoes in her lullaby.
When memory echoes her lullaby,
hushing sounds of the storm calm outside.
Winds brush the chimes of time
like the sound of a mother singing.
Mother rocks on the soles of her feet
feeling the rhythm of life changing.
The rhythm of life is always changing
when the rain sounds like a mother weeping.
Margaret Simon, draft
Reflections on the Teche 