Birthday Girl

Today is Mother's Day, in Mexico. My mother's no longer with us, but I wrote this for her on her birthday, too many years ago. She was in the middle stages of Alzheimer's, and she read this and said, "That's just how it is."

It was the last time I ever saw her read.

It's my birthday today

They say.

I'm eighty-three today

They say.

I don't remember

This is my favorite restaurant

They say.

All my friends have come

They say.

I don't know their names

This gift is just what I wanted

They say.

The cake has pink icing.

I remember turning seven at sea.

We had four o'clock tea under the awning

on the starboard deck. The ocean slept silvery grey,

the seagulls wheeling and pleading like naughty puppies.

All my friends were there: Jennifer and Meg,

Lucie showing off her new white shoes,

Rosalyn, Patricia and Marie.

Baby Timmy awake and shouting in the sunshine,

with Miss Alice to keep him from going through the rails.

I was wearing my flowery pinafore,

crackly with starch and smocking, ivory-buttoned

over my Sunday cotton. Silky ribbons

-Mamma did my pigtails- shimmery pink

to match the icing on the chocolate cupcakes.

I remember nibbling -like a lady-

cucumber sandwiches cut in tiny wedges,

salmon pinwheels, scones with peach preserves.

I poured the tea; I was the hostess, gracious

queen of Mamma's lily-of-the-valley china.

My birthday cupcake wore a candied violet

t'were a pity to eat. It graced my ship trunk

until Miss Alice, unpacking, threw it away

because she said

it smelled of mothballs.

It's my birthday today.

I'm eighty-three.

They say.


Poems
©Susannah Anderson 1998