What I Would Tell My Mom If I Could

How Minnesota dropped below minus 45, 64
cars piled up in Kansas. Much to be thankful for,
she agrees. To avoid icy streets, I am walking

in Costco, have returned to the senior center
where we drum our feet on the floor, seated
in folding chairs. Funny, she thinks, this sitting

marathon, even she might make the finish.
I will tell her about the hand cream my doctor
advised, soaks in to chapped hands without

feeling greasy, would she like to try some.
I will say I am keeping up with my students,
not wanting to tax her on account of

the origins of the Nature Movement,
the evolution of Barbie dolls, the finale
of aging for women with disabilities.

She will ask what I’ve heard from
my daughter, and how my ex-husband
is doing. I will tell her how good to see

cousin Helen at the service, so long since
our freshman year in college. I will say Helen
adores her, the affection that summer

we were ten, chocolate sodas when her mother
left for international affairs. I would say I took
those sodas for granted, so constant, reliable,

tell her I still double knot my shoelaces
for a hike. I would ask if she has found Dad
and how long it took, whether instantaneous,

souls touching like sparklers on the Fourth,
or not until some complex and delicate
screening by angels her side of the river.

She will hang up too soon, as she usually did
those last years, unable to hold any more,
unable to follow my wintry landscapes,

my anxious footing. Still she would
thank me for calling, and say good night.

Carol Barrett teaches Poetry and Healing seminars for two universities. She has published two volumes of poetry and one of Creative Nonfiction (Pansies, a finalist for the 2020 Oregon Book Awards.) Her poems appear in such diverse journals as JAMA, The Women's Review of Books, Poetry International, Christian Century, and Bellevue Literary Review. A former NEA fellow in poetry, she lives in Bend, OR.