Ode to Mom

This time of the year wraps a blanket of nostalgia around my thoughts. It brings all the warm coziness of past years of carving pumpkins, visiting orchards, and warm laughter of family and friends huddled indoors to ward off the outdoor, cooling temperatures. I used to not view this time of the year with much enthusiasm as the fall of leaves was a quick reminder that another 9 months of school were to follow. (Ironic that I have chosen for my career to spend 9 months of the year in that very place.)
Anyway, I have grown to appreciate this season more as I have felt the closeness that it seems to bring among friends. I enjoy the talks, get-togethers, and parties and activities that seem to pull us into a tighter-knit family. I love that my family created fun throughout this season.
My mom never was without an idea for some fun craft or activity we could construct together, whether it be roasting pumpkin seeds, carving potato men, pressing leaves, or baking together. Yeah…these may not sound like the most exciting activities, but she made them some of the most treasured times of my childhood. She created a place of safety and comfort for me.
Years ago I attempted to put into a piece of writing the feeling of my mom and ended-up describing her kitchen, maybe because that is where I saw her the most. It’s just a young girl’s view.

Mom’s Kitchen

Like the steady hum of the vacuum
Or the clinking of glasses and stoneware
Dishes in a soapy sea, mom’s kitchen
Vibrates with life. Her 70’s apron,
A puzzle of oranges and greens
Pulled snuggly around her waste,
Shields From greasy bullets.
Her hands slip strips of bacon
Into the sizzling skillet
While she hums “Amazing Grace.”
Glancing up through a dark tangle
Of curls, she throws me a smile.
“Set the table please?” She requests
I toss back ‘sure” swiveling
Towards oak bordered cupboards
For clean glasses.
Above a Madrite washboard stands. In the corner, hand-woven basket reeds squat
Next to the intricately painted Russian tea tray.
Stoneware in hand, I set the oval table for seven.
Rhythmic ticking and quarterly outbursts
From the standing grandfather clock belong here,
Like the seasoned canning jars,
Diagonally lining the counter.
There is a warmness in the salty
Aroma of eggs and bacon mingled
With the clanking of dishes, popping grease,
And mom’s gentle croon.