With Mother’s Day approaching, I once again reread two poems by Stanley Plumly that I admire.

In “Say Summer/For My Mother,” Plumly writes:

I could give it back to you, perhaps in a season,
say summer.  I could give you leaf back, green
grass, sky full of rain…

And in “Two Moments, for My Mother,” he writes:

The nights I don’t sleep, like the days I sleepwalk through—

I am thinking about your hand on my forehead,
how it let the pain shine, go dark, and cool…

I am alive because of you.

I am alive all night and in the morning,
like a penny’s worth of fever, the sun is alive,

One color, then another—lily, chrysanthemum, dew.

As I read, I realized that an exercise I tried out a few years ago to write about my mother for Mother’s Day is a variation of the “Three Days and Three Nights” exercise I introduced two weeks ago.  If you are planning to write for Mother’s Day, whether in tribute to your mother or in memory of her, this exercise might help.

To begin, articulate something problematic concerning your mother:  “Do I (or did I when she was alive) spend enough time with my mother?”  “Can I do or could I have done anything about my mother’s loneliness?”  “How can I tell my mother something she doesn’t want to hear or how could I have told her when she was alive?”

After you articulate a “problem,” decide on a place you can go physically (or mentally) to remember her.  It might be something quirky like a busy intersection or in front of a school, or it might be somewhere you often think of your mother, such as at the sink or by a particular plant in your garden.  For the exercise, you will write from this place three times, all in one day, over three days, or over the next week or two.

Now, use the place you have decided upon as a title:  At the Corner of Venice and Motor, I Swing Through the Green Light and Think of My Mother,” “I Have Set Up an Altar for My Mother at the Sink,” “Among the Roses, I Think of My Mother,” or “Morning Rush Hour and I Think of You, Mother.”

Each time you write, title the writing after the part of the day you are writing or the time of day you are writing.  Each time, as you begin, think of yourself as giving something back to your mother from the place you put in the title, from your day as you think about it or from the associations you make that your mother would appreciate.

Inspired by Plumly’s words and images and connection to his mother, I wrote three times as I sat looking out the window by my desk.  The red blossoms of the large bougainvillea in my California backyard made me think of the lipstick my mother wore when she was a young woman.  The bright red color brought thoughts of her, even though the plant was not one that was in either of the landscapes she had inhabited.  I thought about her current life as an East Coast transplant living in the Northwest and about other differences between my mother’s life as a younger woman raising a family and her life as an older woman caring for her husband with Parkinson’s.  I wondered if I could identify something to help bring her essence back to me at a time when she was suffering great anxiety. Having read Plumly’s poems, my writing came as a poem, but I know that prose works, too.

Bougainvillea Outside My Study Window
And I Think of My Mother

l. Wednesday Afternoon
I never expected to live here in the City of Angels,
those 70-something ladies at Vons and Savon
shopping in the tight flashy clothing of the 60’s,
their 1940’s golden pumps and head wraps.
how easily I think back to me in the first grade,
tromping around in my mother’s navy blue heels,
watching her lipstick rise from her sheath
with a twist of her fingers, her compact chirping shut.

2. Saturday Afternoon
The bougainvillea doesn’t sweat in the sunlight.
I am home after biking 30 miles, Santa Monica Mountains
beckoning, a voluptuous goddess holding houses on her hips,
the house my mother wanted when I was 11.

I see the paper work on the kitchen table, my father with his
columns of numbers, how much from here and from there
and from parents, how much the interest on how many loans.

My sister and I sit with bowls full of ice cream on shaky folding
snack trays in front of the couch, Jackie Gleason on TV,
his small city apartment, something my parents had come from.

I biked along a path only feet from white waves
breaking on sand, watched a cove full of wet-suited surfers
waiting on their boards like raisins in cookie dough.

I remembered the sound of my mother baking on Saturday mornings,
the crashing of pans in the oven broiler draw where she stored them.

3. Sunday Morning
I raise the blinds on a late December morning,
Bougainvillea branches laden with blossoms.

Christmas time in the department store where my father
had a second job and my mother brought my sister and me
to have ice cream in the store café—I want to give this back
to her, the pistachio ice cream that was my father’s favorite,
the Howdy Dowdy spoons we ate it with, itchy chartreuse couch
in our living room, father doing paperwork in his parked car,
the way he adjusted his tie, asking if he looked presentable,
his words, “Nobody is indispensable,”
the way we never thought that it was true.

****

Looking at what I had written, I saw that the images I was offering where about the ways in which my father was the driving force in my mother’s life.  She may have been the one who kept house, but he was the one who made sure they could have a house.  When he couldn’t do his work inside our apartment because it was too noisy, he did it in his car. My mother was embarrassed by this and impatient for him to come inside when he returned for the day, but he was doing a good job of earning money for the family and to buy a house.

She cooked and cleaned and relied on him for her happiness, but now she would need to learn how to let him go.  Suddenly, I remembered my father’s frequently repeated words about no one being indispensable.  In his career in sales, this was one of a number of phrases that he believed encapsulated the point of view sales people needed to stay motivated.

I revised my poem to let information about my mother’s connection to my father build.  I took away images that didn’t help what I saw now as the inherent message of the poem.  I added in ones that I thought were on message:

Bougainvillea Outside My Window and I Think of My Mother

1.  Wednesday Afternoon
When did she stop using lipstick the red of this
bougainvillea outside my window?  From the years
between then and now comes the scent of lilac bushes planted
at each new home, the dogs named Fanny and Butch,
Pledge and Pride, products we dusted with,
the way we shrunk from the gurgle and hiss of her steam
iron, thud it made against the cotton-wrapped board.

2.  Saturday Afternoon
Home now after 30 miles of sun in my eyes and the far off
Santa Monica Mountains beckoning like a voluptuous woman
in evening dress, houses like sequins on her full-length gown,
a village of houses like the one my mother wanted when I was 11.

I remember my sister and me, shaky folding snack trays in front
of the chartreuse couch, Jackie Gleason on TV, his small city apartment,
something my parents had come from, my father at the kitchen
table with columns of numbers, how much from there and from there
and from parents, how much the interest on how many loans?

3.  Sunday Morning
When I raise the blinds, I see sunlight on the bougainvillea.
Though it is late December, the branches are laden with blossoms.
I want to give my mother back days she bought pistachio
ice cream my father loved, the shopping trip to buy Howdy Dowdy
spoons we ate it with, window to raise and yell at my father
for doing his paperwork in his parked car, not ready to come in.
I want to give her back mornings he adjusted his tie
asking if he looked presentable, his words, “Nobody
Is indispensable,” the way we never thought that it was true.

****

After I saw this version of the poem, I wondered what would happen if I took out my three subheadings. I thought maybe I had made a poem that was of apiece, and so I did a little more revising to see if stanza breaks alone would work.

Here is what I wrote without the separate titled parts:

Bougainvillea Outside My Window and I Think of My Mother

When did she stop using lipstick the red of this bougainvillea
outside my window?  From the years between then and now
comes the scent of lilac bushes planted at each new home, the dogs
named Fanny and Butch, Pledge and Pride, products we dusted with,
the way we shrunk from the gurgle and hiss of her
steam iron, its thud against the cotton-wrapped board.

Home after 30 miles of sun in my eyes and the far off
Santa Monica Mountains beckoning like a voluptuous woman
in evening dress, houses like sequins on a full-length gown,
a village of houses like the one my mother wanted when I was 11.

I remember my sister and me, the shaky folding snack trays
in front of the chartreuse couch in our suburban garden apartment,
Jackie Gleason on the TV, my father at the kitchen table with columns
of numbers, how much from here and from there and from parents,
how much the interest on how many loans?

This late December, the bougainvillea branches are laden
with blossoms, with days I’d give back to her, like ones when she
bought the pistachio ice cream my father loved, the Howdy Dowdy spoons
we ate it with, days she raised the window to yell at my father for doing
his paperwork in his parked car, not ready to come in, and mornings he
adjusted his tie asking if he looked presentable. I’d give her back his works,
“Nobody is indispensable,” and the way we never thought that it was true.

****

I hope that this Mother’s Day, you’ll try your hand at using this exercise to write about your thoughts concerning your mother.  You may like the writing in three pieces, or like I me, you may find that the three sittings actually helped you generate something that doesn’t in the end need divisions. Either way, you will have written what is important to you and probably better understand your mother.