By Sarah E. Murphy

My earliest memories of moving from West Newton to our newly renovated summer cottage in Falmouth Heights, and the only memories I recall of having one-on-one time with my mom, date back to the mornings and afternoons she and I spent together as she first began cultivating her garden, when I was three, maybe four, before I went to kindergarten. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I watched her struggle, unfulfilled and overwhelmed by the demands placed upon her by a patriarchal religion. It’s one of the main reasons I struggled to decide whether or not I wanted to or thought I could be a mother. Ultimately, it’s why I chose not to follow that path.

And although I was never a little girl who spent time dreaming of her wedding day, I did eventually find someone I wanted to share my life with, and I knew before Chris and I were officially engaged that the only place I could imagine myself celebrating that special milestone was right in my parents’ backyard at 36 Grand Ave.

I wrote this poem for my mother thirty years ago, not long after she left the Catholic Church and the forced beliefs that accompany ethnicity. Today, this sacred space is dedicated to Mary and “the feminine face of God,” and to me, it’s more spiritual than any church, an opinion that is reinforced each time I visit the Vatican. It makes me feel safe, as she always has.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love and appreciate you more than any poem can encapsulate.

Mom’s Garden

I cherish those

sacred times

when the big ones

were at school

the little ones attempting to nap

and I had Mom

to myself.

I’d sit under

the golden sun

on a grassy blanket

watching her

give life

this time to

the yard around us

mirroring her actions

with my plastic shovel

reveling in

the dichotomy of

potato bugs

and the revolting

fascination

of the creatures

whose home

I was invading.

Although I wasn’t

old enough for school

here I was a student of my mother’s serenity

a feeling foreign

in the home of her

own mother

who never knew

the joy of

seeking and finding solace

in the soil.

At the close of

those days

the bustle of our crowded kitchen

and the intrusion

of dusk

brought many

voices and dilemmas

forcing me

to relinquish her

but not without knowing

I was part of

the garden.

Then came bedtime

brushing Oil of Olay

against my cheek

with a goodnight kiss

to usher me to sleep.

Clean sheets and

my night light

and nothing more

to want.

SEM, 1994