I learned from my mother how to love
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand
in case you have to rush to the hospital
with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants
still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars
large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole
grieving household, to cube home-canned pears
and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins
and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.
I learned to attend viewings even if I didn’t know
the deceased, to press the moist hands
of the living, to look in their eyes and offer
sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.
I learned that whatever we say means nothing,
what anyone will remember is that we came.
I learned to believe I had the power to ease
awful pains materially like an angel.
Like a doctor, I learned to create
from another’s suffering my own usefulness, and once
you know how to do this, you can never refuse.
To every house you enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,
the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.
Perhaps because Mother’s Day has just passed, this poem seemed timely, and accurate too. I learned from my mother how to love / the living Kasdorf begins, and the living quickly include those who are ill, grieving, suffering. Her mother’s instructions to have plenty of vases on hand, so practical in case you want to take peonies, black ants still stuck to the buds, to someone at the hospital (though that lovely gesture is no longer welcomed).
She learned to save wide-mouthed jars to fill with fruit salad, enough for a whole grieving household, to attend viewings even if I didn’t know / the deceased, to offer sympathy as though I understood loss even then, something I certainly did not understand as a young woman. I learned that whatever we say means nothing, what matters is that we showed up, genuinely showing our caring for the grieving family – I learned that when my father died.
I find these last lines especially poignant and true: I learned to create / from another’s suffering my own usefulness, whether with compassion or practicality, we each have something to offer. To every house you enter, you must offer / healing. How simple this healing can be, the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch. I, too, have received real and metaphorical chocolate cakes, flowers, kind words, being held in love when given with heart. Whether your mother taught you this or not, may it be so for you.