Oh how I wish it could be,
My mother's 91st birthday.
Her name was Amadita
In the little village of La Jara
Adjacent to the San Pedro
Parks Wilderness
Of New Mexico, USA.
With her eyes aglow
She told me she had a pet prairie dog.
I thought that was cool.
I wanted one, too.
The adobe house she grew up in
Had no running water and no electricity.
I only experience that when I go camping.
One of her daily chores was
To take a bucket down to the creek
And bring it back full of water.
She hated the kitchen.
She preferred to work
Outside with the farm animals.
She married a Navy vet.
Who adored her.
We all did.
By the time I learned
She had another name
Besides, mom.
She had taken the Anglicized
She had taken the Anglicized
White man’s version,
She was Amy.
She was a trickster.
She hid behind the doors,
In the closet,
In the closet,
Or under the bed,
And scare us
Whenever she got the chance.
I did it to our children.
I still do it to my spouse.
I still do it to my spouse.
My mother used to make me laugh.
Often. Every day, and a lot.
We would talk for hours.
And laugh and tease for more.
She confessed one day,
After I came home from the war,
After I came home from the war,
That she hadn’t read my letters
I sent her from Viet Nam.
She cried whenever one dropped
Through the mail slot.
She knew they wouldn’t make her laugh.
She was afraid one might say I died.
She died in 1986.
We put a license plate
On her coffin
And slid a bag
On her coffin
And slid a bag
Of chocolate covered raisins
Into her hand,
For a snack,
On her final trip.
We wrote love notes
With permanent markers
With permanent markers
All over her casket
So Saint Peter
So Saint Peter
Could easily see
Just how loved she was.
I miss her on days
Like today.
And then I laugh,
Remembering my
Trickster mom.
