Who's a Saint
I read a poem about
a mother, a saintly mother,
who, with knotted and veined
hands, crocheted blankets
and booties and mittens
for grandchildren,
who made lemonade
and cookies for after school,
who canned and pickled and
made sarsaparilla, jam, and bread.
Certainly not my mother.
My mother was a clubwoman,
member, sometimes president,
often working on a project
while the peas burned.
She fed us meat, potatoes, and vegetables,
but she hated the kitchen
and housework.
Her major vices were cigarettes, quite
often Manhattans and one
we don’t talk about.
She constantly bemoaned
she didn’t do anything “meaningful”
with her education; no one valued
her ideas, especially my dad.
She felt belittled, unimportant, and
clubs fulfilled some of that need.
But who was it that kept everyone
in the family together?
During the Great Depression, who
managed to keep us fed and clothed
when Dad was out of work?
Who took care of her mother and
mother-in-law in the same house
for more than five years?
Who cared for months for my Aunt Carol, flown
home from overseas with kidney disease,
and who took in her three girls for “off-time”
the years they were State-side for education?
Who took in my dad’s brother, wife and
two children for six months
after my uncle lost his job?
Who welcomed children and grandchildren
when the need arose, no matter
how many people were already there?
Who cared for her mother-in-law
in her dying weeks, when her daughter
refused to do so?
Who was always there for us in emergencies?
In spite of a sharp tongue that often stung,
she kept us together when fate
tried to decree otherwise.
In my mind that’s a kind of saint!
Copyright © Barbara Peckham | Year Posted 2024
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