Remembering Mother
She smelled of smoke,
bourbon and Coty L’aimant,
each redolent scent, even now,
setting me on a futile trail
of memory and wistfulness.
she couldn’t cope with life or love
or laundry or childish tantrums;
stood on a ledge her entire life,
waving off attempts to talk her in,
discounting the love she required
with utter desperation, refusing to
believe herself worthy,
angry that no one knew how
to love her in the savage way
she craved, leaving her to find
her only dependable escape
in chemical happiness
and me searching
for something
I would never find
and could not
stop seeking.
CP
Nancy Calhoun recently retired from corporate America. She has also sung opera part-time (quite well known in places no one has ever heard of). She lives in a small ranch town in southeast Arizona, in a home nestled in grasslands on a hill surrounded by mountains. Its beauty inspires her every day as she writes by the window, with opera playing on her Ipod.
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