The holder of string

Each of us will often have a number of active families in our lives: the family we were born to, family we sought when first we stepped into the vast open space of life as an ‘adult’, maybe even collecting a family that holds shared values but whom we connect with rarely.

Regardless of how we define family or which family we refer to here, there is often one person in each of these families who loosely holds the strings of connection – and is the glue of each of our families.

That glue – or string-holder – is the person who remembers each story, or enough of each story, to get us started talking. Sometimes it’s the person who is the recurring character in many stories, holding the larger collective family story bound tightly. My shared DNA family – the one I grew up with – had one of those people to keep the strings together: my mother.

“Didn’t you tell him about the time your bathing suit got caught on the top of that waterslide? Well, we were at this marina…”

“But, of course, there was the summer we had to start the car with a screwdriver after your father lost the keys at…”

“I always knew you would write something – didn’t I say that when you got that award that time in sixth grade for your book report on…”

Encouraging, incredible, and at times perhaps a bit embarrassing – my mother knows a little bit (if not more) of every story in our family. To this day I ask her, during our regular bi-weekly telephone calls, to recount details of some trial or tribulation I/we/she/us encountered as part of our family.

I think that perhaps talking to my mother was my first experience with using some form of a heuristic, before I knew what it even was. School projects, those beloved book reports, and on to what and who Okanagan Writing Services really is – my mother has continually been asking questions, gently pushing me along whatever path is in front of me, and regularly helping me define my voice.

My stories wouldn’t ever become my writing without my mother’s memory illuminating the dim corners of my frayed recollections.

Occasionally I feel the combination of inspiration (whatever that is), motivation and courage enough to attempt a bit of poetry. Most of my scribblings are lumped into the general category of 'prose' until otherwise assigned, but this time it's something special. After all, it is my mom.

Thanks, mom. I look at my hands and see you, in so many ways – what a remarkable gift.



Sounds of sleep

Mesmerizing sounds of
musicians playing, voices soaring
the distinct clink of glass
collides in thick air

Someone’s house in this
suburban town, transformed as
the sun falls to sleep
changing places with the moon

Festive evening wear softly
murmurs appreciation of curved hips;
occasional caresses by loving
hands as couples dance

Upstairs, children dream among coats
of Sunday’s best; a tangle of
arms and legs and feet on beds
not their own, but familiar

Close my eyes and hear/feel
the sound/pulse of my
mother: talking, laughing, singing
my head argues with sleep

Small fingers clasp tightly onto
loving healing guiding hands
I lean against her chest and finally
fall
through
everything
fall into
sounds of sleep


~ Jeannette