When I Dream of My Mother, She Is a Voice
Soothing, in the dark,
me lying outside the covers,
warm along her curved body.
Quavering, help me,
I’m sick, call Daddy,
and I go to the hall,
pick up the receiver
with its looping black cord.
Joyful, Libbety-bib,
teasing, Arise, O Lib,
admonishing, lips pursed,
Queen Elizabeth.
Growling, laughing,
reading me Ferdinand the bull
and the story about the possum
at the bottom of the barrel.
Hopeful, tomorrow,
that newwww day, will
come. It will come.
For Roberta Wilson Gilkison Falk
(June 20, 1913-April 21, 1980)
4 thoughts on "When I Dream of My Mother, She Is a Voice"
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even in the accumulation of losses
even without any recording machine
we can close our eyes
and hear their voices,
great poem
Nice incorporation of voice into the poem so we hear it as well. Lovely!
This is such a beautiful way to remember your mother – her voice, but also the soothing warmth of her body. We read “Ferdinand” to our children – a keeper!
I want my daughter to hear my voice now., “Help, help my brain hurts!”