Her Mother Before

Before the days of the closed door - the downstairs parlor turned into a bedroom because her mother could not climb the stairs - and mostly disappeared and quiet behind the door -

except the one time when she came all the way out to the barn - in her tailored green bathrobe - still tall and statuesque - She came all the way out and climbed up the barn stairway, that no longer had a rail - propelled by her remaining fierce motherhood -- she climbed to the remains of the second floor to yell her children down from their perilous hideaway - to underscore with her own risk, that they should never go up there again

Before the Catholic school and hospital in South Carolina - where the nurses were nuns that did not talk - mommy quiet in her bed - her daughters quiet also - before leaving her the last time

Before the linoleum hallways of little rooms with other girls in them like hers, with a window that looked out on the lawn -- and on sunny days the leaf rakers leaning slowly on their rakes between raking - a window that looked out onto the past -- onto the days before

When there was her mother - with her hair piled up in dark braids - wearing the stylish white sheath with tiny flecks of red thread in the fabric that made it look like it was sprinkled with red rice - there she was on her birthday having lobster - with a bib around her neck and her children laughing -- and their father proud, holding his youngest daughter - who was sitting in awe, memorizing her beautiful mommy - the length of her fingers holding the fork