You say you recognize my mask,
made by a mutual friend
from fabric your Mother left behind.
And smiling, I recall the neat piles
of fabric always surrounding my own Mother.
So many years of sunlight streaming down on her bent head
As she trundled the machine,
deft hands guiding the needle,
Gentle tugs to keep things right.
Seersucker bedspreads, poodle skirts, crinoline slips,
gently made for two young sisters.
Curtains for every window in every house.
My own first effort — a nursery draped in yellow baby ducks.
So, in your prayers tonight,
thank your Mother for the mask that’s keeping me safe today,
the mask that has held up to so many washings,
the mask that has renewed so many precious memories.
©2020 Maureen Woltermann, Used with Permission
