Her memory is like embracing burlap--
Slightly scratchy, if warm and sturdy--
or maybe akin to astringent
splashed on stinging skin.

I'm told my wicked wit is like hers;
Not my soft round blonde shape--
She was brunette, trim,
And always after me to lose 10 pounds.

But still I picked up a good many
of her tools, like...

"There is always something you can do
in any situation."

"God is in control"

"Even poor people can use soap and water."

"Children will behave as well as you expect them to."

"Quit whining and rub some lotion on it."

Her ascerbic tongue was tempered with a little laugh. 

Her intentions were kind, when her words weren't.

She always used the good dishes,
the best silver;
the house was filled with company
and the freezer with good things to eat.
Stains did not dare linger on any clothes,

Loose buttons were dealt with severely.
She made wreaths from pine cones,
orderly and symmetrical,
no adornment but the natural brown cones.

Mom sold Tupperware, Vonda Beauty Products:
made her own clothes, and my prom dress
and bridesmaids gowns:

She had no time for my teenaged angst.
She was maligned in our small town,
(some mistook her outrageous confidence
for cheap flirtation)
but I know that this was not true .
My sharp eyes saw romance
between her and Dad.
Sweet love songs
jealous people wouldn't understand.

Mom had no time for pettiness.
"Life is too short," she said,
and forgave
moved on
learned to play piano,
led the choir in the Brethren Church,

Did fine things.
In Heaven now, I'm sure she's running out
Celestial cobwebs, reproving slovenly angels,

pruning bushes and canning the marvelous
12 kinds of fruit from the amazing Revelation trees.

I am designing my own body of work,
legacy for my children,
hoping that God and Mom
will both be proud of me
when I see them.