Remembering my dearest Mum on what would have been her birthday, posting a poem I wrote in honour of her when I was studying for my Creative Writing Degree.
A Found Memory Fossil: Dry. Smooth? Not smooth – rough. Light! Weighs nothing. I move my finger to slip over the top end and find smooth. A clean cut. A harsh chopping off.
A crack has appeared. It’s old, dirt-encrusted, making the fissure stand out from the beige of light and dark mottled skin.
This portion of dead twig has been displaced, into my warm, clutching hand. It is bowed, perhaps with the weight of brilliant blossom in fertile times. But with age and exile, the object bears no hint of past profusion. No scar of leaf or flower. Only grooves in dry, brittle skin.
Viewed from the smooth top, a solid golden core betrays its strength. Marred by a red blemish - perfect oval, tree blood showing the pain of dissection.
Where did you come from, my severed arm? You stood in proud grandeur. High, looking down on sheep grazing green grounds beneath.
Your ghostly mother, her children housing nests, hollows, where new life begins. Waving in the sweeping wind. Bowing to earth’s elements. Dressing for season’s ball.
A young boy climbed your sturdy limbs seeking adventure, chasing the sun to knock a parrot’s nest – not caring about fragile eggs of new families.
You remind me of my mother. Her honesty. Loveliness. No frills - just lines of age. Her purpose obvious. To bear fruit.
The golden core of subtle strength was always known. The ability to bend when winds buffeted. Fissures evidence damage – results of force against will or ability. Life wasn’t always easy.
My mother has been gone for a long time now, but hugging this piece of dry, light branch, comforts me. The memories of mother. The naturalness of her protection.
I remember her hands at the end. Dry, mottled, beige and brown. Clutching mine in death. Cold. The heat from my warmth trying desperately to infuse life.
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