ar lámh shábhála

my father drove
and my mother did the healing
just her kind
heart-sweet mind
with the sun’s hand on her shoulder

I remember that day
so well, and so fondly
I was four
feet squished to the door
she was younger then, than I am now

the visions I have
are painted as three:
my hand out,
then sharp clamp about,
finally this, of singing voice and curly head

that held a small part of her clan
in a dirty station wagon
with saving grace
in restful place
on a lap wrapped in mother’s calm

my father drove
and my mother did the healing
warm blood from my brow
I hold firm to this now
as one of my favorite days

 

bn (Mother's Day 2006)

(Background: When I was four, I was at a church retreat with my family. There was a large Irish Setter chained to a pole, and we were sternly warned to stay away. Of course I didn't. Surely this dog would like for me to give it love, I convinced myself. I shuffled forward, hand outstretched. Moments later, he had a grip on my face with me on my back on the ground. I remember nothing past that except racing to the hospital in the car, my dad driving and my mom holding my bleeding head in her lap and singing to me. This is a precious memory to me.)