Portrait of My Mother

Portrait of My Mother
But, not all you need to know
A Prose Poem

From the time I can remember she had a laugh that would stop you in
your tracks, and get a smile out of you, no matter how miserable you
were. Her Irish eyes sparkled even when things were at their worst and
she loved me more than life itself!

She could pray with the angels and drink with the truck drivers. Her
hair was grey except for Saint Patrick's Day -- then it was her one
indulgence (in the year) to go to the Beauty Parlor and get a shampoo,
a set, and a blue rinse. Tradition held that she would come home
immediately and wash everything out -- styling it herself --
vociferously complaining that the beautician never did it exactly the
way she wanted anyway! Then after applying a bit of powder, rouge and
lipstick, she put on her best dress (washed and pressed for the
occasion) and promising me that she would not sing Irish songs all the
way home in the cab, we'd be off, she and I, to the Saint Patrick's Day
Dance (County of Tipperary) at the Diplomat Hotel in New York City. It
was there she would kick up her heels in the jigs and the reels of her
native Ireland, still home to her after more than thirty years of life
in New York. Imagining herself in her youth, at one of the Saturday
dances at Saint Brendan's in Clonmel, she would step lively to the
cadence of "A Stack of Barley", her favorite reel. It was, after all, a
long way back to Tipperary and her without the price of a ticket.

She never meant to lie, but it was inevitable that we would sing her
songs, from the "auld sod," long and fondly remembered -- all the way
home; I was always prepared for that. I was also prepared to pay the
cab driver, making sure he got a "proper" tip "at least tuppence" she
would instruct me, forgetting that we were in America. I'd help her up
the six flights of stairs to our apartment; with her needing to rest on
every landing. The whole climb she'd giggle like a child, and me being
one, I'd assure her that everything was all right and she would be fine
in the morning. Meanwhile neighbors would open their doors just a crack
to see what all the commotion was about. "Oh" I'd hear them whisper,
"it must be Saint Patrick's Day, Mrs. Willis has been drinking!"

It was our ritual, one we shared from the time I was four until I was
thirteen. One I still miss after all these years -- only now, it's my
own two boys who make me promise not to sing those "old songs" every
March 17th. Like my own dear mother, I promise not to, and like my own
dear mother I can't help myself. After all once the dance has ended,
the words and the tunes from the "auld sod" just seem to have a mind of
their own!

? 2000 Willis-Whyte