October 1st is Mamaw’s birthday
round an oval wooden table
7 kids and a cake, not a banana pudding she makes
dishwater hands
soft and powdered with cocoa and chocolate roll flour
or buttered like her nose by a sneaky five year old,
mean as a snake but sweet to Mamaw
when he wasn’t running circles away from her around the house-
she couldn’t catch up but stood still waiting
that kid trapping birds beneath a box
with a stick tied to string
or rocking in her crochet chair,
pulling on her earlobe until it was drooppy
we lost her during the night when I was in 10th grade
but as we grow keep finding her
in white rocking chairs
crochet
cordless phones
rusted milk churn cans
hummingbirds
and traditions that still play in our hearts like birthdays
we celebrated together.
She sent me to school reading Where the Red Fern Grows
but didn’t tell me it was sad
I got off the bus crying over dogs that died and
a boy who loved them
a boy who grieved the way only a boy can
when he’s lost best friends
Emmy loved a mangy dog – Sweetie?
and Mamaw loved on her
while she held onto that dirty stinky dying ugliest dog I’ve ever seen
or the second time I didn’t make Lion’s Band
beyond consolation with my wet hair hanging in my face hiding
even while I sat near her
1918 – she would have been 101 today
still talking on the phone to friends who by now have joined her
reading her Bible again or
sharing books with me – she read them first
crocheting Granny square pot holders for Christmas presents
2 for each teacher of all 7 children
I had no idea how rare that is
even among the rich
to love and appreciate in a way that teachers can hold and use
that children can remember and celebrate on her birthday
as many years later as I was old
when she put in her teeth
climbed back into bed
and went home
quietly but strong the way she lived
I wish I could give her a pecan log
or random things she needs
underwear, orange slices, little white cans of snuff
wrapped in Fred’s bags
or teach Rowan to say Mamaw
and see myself young and gingy
singing bad words to Amazing Grace in the back of a pickup
under the shade trees
eating apples with salt
how I’ve imagined it was
though I probably don’t remember
she liked to walk in the woods
and showed me on land that used to belong to her
a stream and the silence.
It shimmered like tall blue green grass dancing beside the road
alive and lit up with sun
but cool like it didn’t know it was September in Mississippi
and she listened when I made up songs-
“I sent Jesus to the cross/I am the reason that He died/
it was for me he paid the cost/it was for me He gave His life
my sins were the thorns on His head/I was the angry mob
that yelled crucify Him/I was the one who beat Him til his heart bled/
I was the one who chose 3 times to deny Him”
– made no big deal over a teenager writing songs about the Bible
made us all feel heard no matter what else was going on
I don’t remember her screaming,
but she did know how to wield the metal end of a fly swat.
She let us help her shell peas in plastic butter bowls
butter beans – that was harder
corn was the worst with all the silks and sometimes little worms
I would give anything for some of her crusty cornbread
and time
to grow up a little more
and hold her tighter
to see her with Mommy’s eyes instead of just my heart
but I do see her and I’m proud
that her blood and everything good that came from her is in me
waking up little by little
teaching me still how to balance life like that kid
climbing on chopped down tree branches in the field behind the house
or crumbly stairs of the storm house
where she stored mason jars.
Milk and sugar in coffee is Mamaw Coffee to Greyce.
I still make banana pudding, warm not cold, with real ‘Nilla wafers.
And when I’m tired I dig a little deeper and talk sweeter to Rowie
who is just “speepy” or “happy” or “spimming” and wants “Mommy do it”
because I understand how precious this is and that she’s learning
to be like me
Happy birthday, Mamaw
May birthdays always mean you’re still close by.
Image from https://www.brooklyngeneral.com/beginner-crochet-granny-squares-session-a
Bad Poetry 