Mother was an anachronism of another age
Steeped in tradition, more genteel
Honorable men opened doors for ladies
In white gloves and pearls, a wife,
And mother was enough, playing bridge
With the ladies’ guild, high tea and canapés
Status measured
By father’s membership at the country club
Dinner promptly served at 5 in the evening
Crisp, white linens and velvet cake for dessert
She lived with us in elder years,
After father passed away, bemoaned
Her fate, a litany of complaints endless:
Our puny, ill-appointed ranch house,
Its mission-style decor
The grandchildren we deprive her of
Focusing on advancing our careers
The spiciness of our meals
Our narrow social sphere
Mother had a recurring dream:
A memory of another life
A Gibson girl, she was
High-born to aristocracy
Riding in a carriage, parasol in hand
Bedecked in satin and lace
This life would have suited her well
She always fretted
How things appeared
When she watched, sentimental films from
1930-40’s, in black and white,
She wept at
“Imitation of Life” and “Camille”
Romantic novels, “Green Dolphin Street”
On the night stand next to her bed
She hummed melodies:
“Moonlight Serenade”, “Begin the Beguine”
Longing to go backward in time
After she died, we sorted through her belongings
Carefully arranged in an upholstered cedar chest
What was inside amazed us all
Volumes of Virginia Woolf, “The Feminine Mystique”,
Poems by Anne Sexton, biographies of Margaret Sanger,
Amelia Earhart, Eleanor Roosevelt
Fragments of her own verse
Flowed in her own pristine script
The perfect penmanship so well taught by the nuns
For all her lovely manners and affectations
There was so much more than this