This is very moving, Ryfkah. The repetition works wonderfully. You aver
consistently your individuality, until it seems you are insisting it to
yourself, confirming your apartness of you from your mother and yet you and
your mother are drawn inexorably together as the poem closes. Sisters more
than mother and daughter and perhaps that is where the true commonality
lies. A splendid read for which thanks. Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Ryfkah *" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Sunday, May 04, 2003 4:15 PM
Subject: New: I am not my mother
> I am not my mother
>
> I throw away some of her
> threadbare towels
> that once belonged to my grandmother
> the demanding mother-in-law
> my mother hated
>
> I am not my mother
> The lilac tree perfumed
> our yard purple every May
> I purchase a few lilac sprigs
> their price dear
>
> I am not my mother
> I save her knickknacks
> the Dresden iceskater
> my father gave her
> because they met
> at the Ice Arena in Chicago
> the elves and miniature houses
> just because they were hers
> One elf gets shattered in the laundry
> stuck between the towels
> I wash
> thinking I'm going to keep them
>
> I am not my mother
> I wonder what my daughters
> are doing for me for Mother's
> Day Whether they remember
>
> I am not my mother
> Her picture on my nightstand
> I want to talk with her
> but she clearly said
> even though ailing from dementia
> You're loudmouthed
> dirty and that is why your
> husband left
>
> I am not my mother
> My mother cried a lot
> My father yelled at her
> a lot I did not want to cry
> but cried too when my husband
> yelled at me
>
> I am not my mother
> Bedroom doors were always
> open Mine is always closed
> I know someone now
> who knows me
> a grown woman
> perfect like lilacs in May
>
> I am not my mother
>
> Ryfkah 5/3/03
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