Portrait of My Mother With the Letter S
Seamstress is the first word that comes to mind. She sewed so many clothes: Easter dresses, guitar recital outfits, twirling competition costumes, matching Western shirts for Dad and David for the fair, doll clothes. All of this on a Singer Featherweight.
She was no chef, though she was a foodie through and through. I remember the smell of scorched lima beans, and the macadamia nuts she secreted away on a top shelf. For a treat, we had broiled spare ribs. I know now that “spare” is the word for “this is a treat even though there’s hardly any meat on the bone.”
She was a saver. A collector. Almost a hoarder. Miniatures, Hallmark house ornaments, glass boxes. And scissors. If I could turn back time, I would ask her – why so many pairs of scissors? Shears (sewing and pinking), embroidery, children’s, vintage, modern plastic-handled Fiskars, and so many manicure scissors.
She was a reader. Mostly mysteries, she bought books at the library sale by the sackful. A secret code in the back cover let her know if she’d already read the book and donated it back to the library.
She gave up salt when she was pregnant with me. I don’t think I can fully appreciate this sacrifice.
She bought me private swimming lessons when I was four because I wasn’t old enough for Red Cross lessons, but I was ready to swim.
She bought me private sewing lessons so we wouldn’t squabble (she the perfectionist, me the good-enough-ionist).
I don’t remember being swatted or spanked, but there was one memorable slap when I disobeyed and walked home from school in my good shoes and was sassy about what the big deal could possibly have been.
One winter, she drove with me out into the country to escape the lights of town so we could see the Ursid meteor shower. We lay on a blanket on the hood of the ‘60 Ford Falcon and watched shooting stars as the car’s engine warmed us, then cooled off until we had seen enough and were shivering.
By the end of her life, her body was covered in scars: hysterectomy, knee/hip/shoulder replacements, double mastectomy. Her soul was scarred by a hateful father and the early loss of her mother. She had a high pain threshold for all the kinds of pain she carried. She wanted for us the childhood she never had, failing to see us as individuals who needed our own childhoods, not hers.
I remember her standing at the kitchen sink, admiring the sunset, often calling me to come and see.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2023
After the poem Portrait of My Father With the Letter V
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Rose has this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at Imagine the Possibilities.
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Today begins National Hispanic Heritage Month. Check out all the different ways Hispanic Heritage is being celebrated here.
A sampling of poems by Manuel Iris, the Poet Laureate Emeritus of Cincinnati, OH can be found here.
A(nother) Year of Reading 
What a lovely tribute to your mother, Mary Lee. When she called you to watch the sunset, I think she was giving you the gift of poetry. Thank you for sharing your memories.
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Mary Lee, what a challenge to write this portrait with so many “s” subjects. I was fascinated to learn so much about your mother. Your mentor poem by Bill Hollands was very interesting too. I’m going to have to think about writing a poem after you both. Thank you!
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Thank you for this introduction to your mother. I’m a believer in heaven. Someday, I’m going to look this woman up and let her know how much I enjoyed friendship with her daughter. What an amazing person she became to raise you. What strength and practicality and wonder. I love everything about this tribute.
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Dear Mary Lee, you had me at seamstress. I love all these S’s! Would you please consider submitting this to Birmingham Arts Journal? I think our team (and readers!) would love it as well. xo
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Mary Lee, thank you for the deep insight into your mother through snippets in time. I love that you see her as a whole, imperfect person, trying her best.
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You’ve given us a loving look of your mother, Mary Lee, with all the feels, what long lives hold. You are wonderful to share her with us. Thank you!
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Mary Lee, this is a beautiful way to remember your mother – all of it – resonates with me. My grandmother was a seamstress making all of the clothes, winter coats, and even bathing suits for my sister and me until we were around 12 – after that, the special day outfits continued, including the bridesmaids’ dresses for my wedding. It is a piece of loving, honest prose. Thank you for sharing it.
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What an amazing Mom you had and I understand about the scars, we all collect them physically and sometimes emotionally, too, but keep moving forward. The moment at the end of your poem is just right.
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What a beautiful way to honor your mother. Your words touched my heart and reminded me of my own mother. Thank you for sharing it with us today!
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Oh, Mary Lee, so much love in here. That meteor shower memory is a treasure. ❤
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The letter S has been so well applied here, Mary Lee. A tribute to your mother in the form of a poem paints a clear picture for us as your readers. It is possessed of love and honesty. Each of us are here in your poem. I think that’s its power and resonance.
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So moving, Mary Lee – thank you for sharing this beautiful glimpse of your mother (and of you).
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I am thinking a lot about my mother at the moment, and her scars and also the gifts she has given me, and this came barreling directly at my heart. I don’t think I’ve seen a picture of yours before, and now I’ve seen *and* felt her clearly. ❤
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I feel like I know your mother intimately with this post. What sacrifices our parents, especially our mothers, made. I will try to remember this exercise to honor my father and my mother. I have felt the pain of not having them to turn to during this health scare.
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Mary Lee, this prose poem is such a wonderful tribute to your mother who was so caring. I laughed over the chef passage and rejoiced at the ending. I can see why you hold her so close in your heart. I think it is an honor that Irene has invited you to submit your poem to the Birmingham Arts Journal. Thank you for the links to read. May you bask in the glory of your mother.
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Mary Lee, this poem is a treasure. What a lovely, lovely tribute.
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Wow, what a powerful tribute to your mother, Mary Lee!
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I read this days ago–quickly, in passing, and it hit me, hard. I knew I had to come back to it when I had more time and space to linger with it. It’s such a beautiful multi-faceted portrait of your mother. Such a clear-eyed loving tribute. Knowing that her gifts continue to bless you (sewing and that Featherweight, swimming, etc) makes it even more powerful. I’m deeply moved and thankful for the experience.
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Mary Lee, what a lovely tribute to your mom – in the key of S.
I also enjoyed a workshop last year featuring Manuel Iris (through Cincinnati’s The Well organization). Thank you for both of these poetry stops this weekend.
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Mary Lee this is just so beautiful. What a tribute to your mother, and to your mutual love.
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O Mary Lee, I’m awestruck with this portrait of your dear Mother & also the one that it’s After, by Bill Hollands.
How fortunate/unfortunate we are to be raised by parents who were scarred, who have talents, passions & foibles. You have lovingly & honestly captured a potent essence. As I see your craftwork/handwork online to me it’s perfect so I can’t imagine how beyond that your Mother’s tailoring/seamstress abilities were. She must have been at the tip-top pro level. Many appreciations, you are planting an idea with me. XO
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Thanks for sharing this heartfelt poem on your mom Mary Lee. I also love the rooftop meteor shower and the secret code she put in the back of her library books, a true sleuth who wore many garbs.
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Absolutely LOVE this!
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I”m so happy I felt and urge to write poetry tonight and came here for mentoring. This is a beautiful piece and while we’ve talked about your mom – I know so much more now. What a beautiful piece!
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