I Took A Survey

I took a survey of my mother's letters, 20
years worth, one letter a week, saved in boxes
tucked here and there, all over my bedroom.
I sought the statistics of exclamation points
and from 15 letters, randomly picked, I
stick-tallied 80, from ruled tablet, or a box of
Betty Boop with matching envelopes, used up,
then angels for awhile, now sunflower stickered.
I should tell you my mother wears ankle bracelets,
toe rings and mandarin collar dresses with deep
side slits to show off her pretty legs. As a child
I wished for a librarian mother, straight hair and teeth
with a soft laugh. She would buy me books. She
would never wear short-shorts and halter tops revealing
her "bust," as mine did, which has kept me covered
from head to toe, to this day. What I did not see,
being young, was the energy of that woman and
each page sends me this with a slice and a dot.
I am so old! It is so cold! Your father is canning
green peppers today. I call him an Old Italian!
It's a bee-u-tiful day! (She hung her laundry, picking
her way through snow under the lines.) Another season,
another year, a man drove by her house and returned
later that evening with his wife, to see my mother's
flowers, they were so beautiful. The neighbor kids claimed her
after we left, stopping by each day for treats and now
their children come and call her Gramma.
A slice and a dot, the flowers, the soups, the pies and
weather, pinned to the page or, so excited they would fly free,
sent somewhere else, but not to me. I was wrong about the
librarian, the books though new would have still been
secondhand, I always had the story before it was printed,

my
beloved
mother.

Copyright © Laurie Lalish 2003