I’m back at my mother’s black pot on my table
A vase ?
An urn?
(Must an urn have a lid?)
This worn black vessel has no lid
It looks sturdy
And, to me, sweet at the same time
With painted stems and leaves and small round flowers
Worn
It is odd that I cannot remember
How my mother used this pot
And yet I do remember it always being there
If I asked her before sleep tonight
“Mother, how did you use this urn?
The black one
The one I use for flowers?”
Would her spirit send me an answer
During my rest when my consciousness is quiet
Able to listen?
And if so, would I ask more?
I do wonder about small things since she’s gone
A thought flits through my mind
A question
About the small things that were always there
Where did they come from?
The round crystal butter dish
The cut glass bowl that holds my bananas
Pieces of her life that remain
When she is gone now
And me here at my table
Wondering about the small things
The small, beautiful things…
—Dale Midgette Smith
MK
What a lovely vessel this poem is, for capturing the fleeting thoughts that connect us to the ones we’ve lost. Thank you.
Dale Midgette Smith
Thank you, Mary. And of course, your comment is poetic itself. It is a gift to connect in those ways, isn’t it?
Julene
Lovely! Simply lovely.
I, too, wonder about the things that were my mother’s, or my grandmother’s or my brother’s. Where is their essence now? I certainly feel them close to me from time to time.
Love and peace, J.
Dale Midgette Smith
Hi, Juju…thank you! Today I am making the Easter lamb cake with my mother’s lamb mold. Making it each year has become almost meditative for me, and if not, then someone else in the family will make it because everyone wants the tradition that was ours always, passed down from my mother since I was thirteen! I know where her essence is right now for sure.
Anonymous
I really relate to this lovely poem. Was wondering the other day which of my mom’s depression ware came from boxes of detergent and which were her wedding presents from Maas Brothers in Tampa. And would she like how I have used it recently for my Ruth Circle refreshments. I was wondering how she made such lovely arrangements in her silver open pedestal dish. How did she manage to keep the stems upright in it. Her beautiful vases now have “memory” bouquets of elegance against my droopy attempts, but I know she would be happy that I keep up her tradition of flowers from the yard to brighten the rooms of my little bungalow. She may wish though she had taught me her knowledge of flower arranging. Julia
Dale Midgette Smith
Julia, I am so glad this poem spoke to you. It seems as though wondering in this way about those gone is familiar to many of us. It is a joy, isn’t it, to know that you are doing something that your mother would like, keeping her tradition of flowers from the yard in her silver dish. Thank you so much for sharing this comment, your own beautiful thoughts.