From a Mother to her Daughters
My Daughters, you are…
from Flo who’s from Helen and Myrtle and Myrtle and Carrie and Anna
from lineage passed from steady hand and steadfast heart
from quilting needles and milking pails, and feather dusters and accordian keys, and canning jars and pens on paper
from apron strings and hair pinned up, from special brown shoes and polyester “waists”, from watchful eyes and rather small statures
from a flower bed and rows of corn, apple crisp and railroad tracks, front porch steps and laundry lines
from Quebec and from Germany and Pennsylvania Dutch, from New York, the Finger Lakes, from here and from there
from lilac and maple, forsythia and pussywillow, johnny jump-ups and crab apples
from dark eyes and dyed hair, crooked teeth and round shoulders, straight backs and floured hands, sun-worn skin, curvy legs
from mopping the brow, kissing the head, squeezing the hand, holding the vigil, catching the fall
from back-breaking work to flying on a lark
from losing a risk to taking a chance
from holding on to letting go
from having nothing to all that you need
from life and loss and life re-born
from struggle and fear to guts and success
from tears and shock
and goodbyes and goodbyes
from laughter and light and from love and from learning
and hellos and hellos and hellos
from honey bees and a dairy cow to ocean coasts and la vallees
from snowfall and waterfall
from east and from west
from wagons through rivers and an old red Chevelle
from of course you can, I’m always here, so proud of you, try again
from breathing and walking and staying the course
from daring and dreaming and dancing and doing
from forgiving and forgetting
from remembering and creating.
My daughters, you are from women who don’t give up.
You are from a family of mothers.
You are from me.
