Poems

Re: "Call Your Mother" Tom Friedman

Lunesta — Mon, 12 May 2008 14:33:47 GMT

Thought about you all day yesterday; you are one of three friends of mine in this situation this year. You know my heart is with you on this one, and as always. I love that poem, as I do the one for your Dad. And you give him my very best regards, OK? Comme toujours, ton shiksami. p.s. The first year IS the hardest one, dear friend.

Re: "Call Your Mother" Tom Friedman

martingreene — Sun, 11 May 2008 22:16:37 GMT

Thank you so much. It is very quiet in the house. Without Mother, there is still Mother's Day, but it was hard for us. Thanks again. Martin

Re: "Call Your Mother" Tom Friedman

waltz and capsize — Sun, 11 May 2008 20:52:08 GMT

Dear Martin,

I was thinking of you today-- how this would be your first Mother's Day without your dear mother. You are in my heart and prayers today, as is your Dad.

I was also thinking about MaryAnn and how she recalls with such tenderness so many things about her own dearly departed Mother. My own mother is still alive, I thank God, as is my mother's Mother, who just celebrated her 90th birthday. But Grandma gets visibly older every season. I sense my own mother quietly considering future grief.

Be blessed today, Martin.

waltz

"Call Your Mother" Tom Friedman

martingreene — Sun, 11 May 2008 19:50:10 GMT

On today's NYTimes Op-Ed page, Tom Friedman writes how he feels that this is the first time he can't call his mother,she died this year. Read it, good article. Me, I can't call mine either, she died in January. So let me post one last time my poem, "Visiting His Mother."

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Visiting His Mother

She doesn’t say anything when he comes in

and says, “Hi, how are you doing? Did you

have lunch yet?” She smiles and nods yes,

but does not speak.

He says “I brought you some nice stuff, I

brought you chocolate, and do you know that we

are coming here for Mother’s Day? We’ll

have broiled salmon, like you used to make.”

Why did he say that? Why talk about what

she used to do? She says nothing, just looks

at him, her son, who is back again, to fill

the medicine boxes, and change the radio

from news to music.

She likes it. She smiles when he puts on

the classical station. Later in the living

room, he will put on a new CD he thinks

she will like. It will be the Segovia Bach,

which will remind her of how he played

guitar, when he still lived in her home,

her son.

On Mother’s day, don’t have the aide come,

not that day. Just us, without the TV on

all day. He hates it that the woman is

always there, but she keeps her clean

and takes her for the walk, and he tells

himself, not the nursing home, not her

in a nursing home, where they keep

them in the wheelchair, and they have to watch

TV all afternoon.

How long will it take, he wonders? But

she smiles when he shows her the pictures

of her great grandchildren. She is happy,

and he comes every week. Again, his father

says he is the happiest man in the world.

At the elevator, he remembers he

forgot to say good bye.