At my desk, this spring day, I read these words
My Mother’s Other Life
Before we go out
to dinner or a movie,
after a long day…..
my mother would stop
in the middle of our rushing…
calmly, just a second,
sitting down on a black-cushioned,
straight-backed chair placed
beside the door solely
for that purpose: to rest
briefly, to deeply breathe in
and out until her heart
slowed down and her face
And I listen to them, too. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/podcasts/76392/my-mothers-other-life
Am I hearing my mother’s other life or my own other life?
Last night I finished reading Connon Girls ~ A Study of 20th Century New Zealand women at university, by Marie Peters.
Once that was my other life. I was a Connon Girl. Some fragments of my story are written within the text.
Do I miss my other life? Not really. It’s a good place to sit , for a while, but from my desk, this spring day, my life is present here ~ mostly.
For I am a mother, and for a mother there is always an other life. My daughter sings it.