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My Mama
My mama is with me still
as I am dusting my dresser.
It’s very dusty.
I pick up each object
and carefully collect the dust that
hides its sheen.
I’m sorry, Mama, that I have
neglected it so.
Tiny perfume bottles,
Tall cologne bottles,
All nearly as full as she left them
ten years ago.
I expected to use each scent,
but my busy life leaves little time
for such luxury.
I just grab some clothes,
run a comb through my hair,
and I’m off and running.
I come to the large Italian bottle
that reminds me of a genie’s holding
prison.
I bought it soon after she died,
wanting something that she would have
liked.
Thinking, “This is for you, Mama,
in memory of your love of beauty.”
I wipe the dust from the bottle,
the glass cork,
the fat, round base,
the striped sides,
purple and rose,
And I wonder now if she really would
have liked it
as much as I once thought.
The oval glass tray with sides of
filigreed gold
has shiny circles, squares, and
rectangles
that remain in those places as
objects are removed.
I wipe it off and remember Mama.
I always say, “Mama never dusted.
No dust ever had a chance to touch
her immaculate home.
She wiped it clean before it could
land.”
I pick up the blue plastic bottle of
Noxema.
Is it still usable after ten years?
I thought I would clean my face the
way Mama did,
but I am careless with such things.
Mama never was.
I remember still the smell of her
face
with its nightcap of Noxema.
My closet holds her presence, too.
Dresses and smocks,
Sweaters and blouses.
I brought them home after she died
knowing how she always said,
“I want you to have my personal
things.”
They are too big for me and not my
style,
but they hang there still,
and I remember Mama each time I open
my closet door.
I love you, Mama.
You were a wonderful mother.
You gave me the greatest gifts of
all,
life
and unconditional love.
Your presence is around me yet,
your words preserved within.
Thank you for everything,
My Mama.
Alice Anderson
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