mother

The Village Maker

(x = space)

The Village Maker

Around the Christmas tree,

My mother used to arrange

A winter’s village

We knew it was winter

Because a sheet had been

Wrapped around

The base and all,

The buildings set inside the folds

There were houses,

Naturally, most with

Peaked roofs though

There was one house top

That was crenellated

Cardboard walls (and roofs)

Had been painted somehow

In manufacturing

With coats of glitter

There was a church with

Paper stained-glass windows

There were people

Plastic or metal

I’m not sure,

Walking through town

There might have been a bench

For one or two to sit upon

There were people, I believe,

Set in a one-horse sleigh

There was a pond for ice

And skating, and there were

Ice-skaters there

The pond was a small mirror

I thought that was so clever

Of my mother

There were holes in the backs

Of the houses and

The church,

Through which light bulbs

Were pressed and a wire,

All connected so that when

The tree was lit, the

Village was illuminated, too

C L Couch

Photo by Gard Skaar Johansen on Unsplash

January 10, 2021 2

Anna Pauline McAnally Couch

Anna Pauline McAnally Couch

(15 February 1925—13 June 1983)

The day after red and white

And pink

It is the ides of February

My mother’s birthday

Pauline was born in 1925,

Died in 1983

Only in her fifties

Such is the ravaging of cancer

I wish she’d had a better life

She was a singer

I wish she could have sung more

A manager, I wish she could have

Run things more her way

I wish she’d had a partnership

Rather than passive and aggressive,

Which she enabled

And then both of them

Passed it on to me

Before the term

Before its time

I don’t remember the real name now

But she knew Doris Day

Before she was Day

My mother was a Southerner

But had no trace of accent

I’m not sure why

Except maybe it was cultured, then

Not to give away

The humble origins

And hers were humble

To the point of terrible

Orphaned of her father

Let go by her mother

Saved by Methodists somehow

I have the picturesque baptism paper

Moved or was moved

From small-town Tennessee to Cincinnati

Set in two states

(for all intents and purposes),

Both sides of the river

I was her middle child

Maybe it’s fair or at least

Mathematical that I should do

Some chronicling

On her behalf

On this, what would be

What is

Her ninety-fifth birthday

Born in Shelbyville, Tennessee

Died in Cincinnati, Ohio

Lives in heaven

C L Couch

Photo by Gary Bendig on Unsplash

she liked rabbits

February 15, 2020 7

How Fast a Dream Fades

How Fast a Dream Fades

There was something

It was Christmastime

I was arguing with my mother

Over singing music I didn’t know

We went to church

Tim Breithaupt was there

He pointed toward a casino

On the hill

I said we have those, too

(casinos not hills, though we

have hills)

There’s not much more

And there was more

I feel sad about it

I was angry in the dream

I cannot argue with her, now

C L Couch

Tom Barrett

@wistomsin

This photo is taken from my flight to Panama. We flew directly through a storm, and this is what I captured.

Unsplash

August 6, 2019 0

Solace

Solace

It’s a kindness, really

To have a little something of my own

A pen, a pair of glasses

A pipe stand that belonged to my father

A photo of my mother, when she was a girl

Holding a little cat

It’s not remembrance

Or nostalgia

Mostly, it’s regret

For what they didn’t have

But should have had

A comfort only

That so much pain is gone

Absent from the Earth

Kept in the tears of God

And every now and then

When I press out my own

As if to keep them in a scrapbook

A book of scraps

The little bits that are my own

C L Couch

Image by Anne-marie Ridderhof from Pixabay

July 22, 2019 0

1982

1982

My mother came home from the hospital today,

and I can’t handle the numbness from

exhaustion. She has the disease, and it’s going

to kill her, but I can’t help but wonder (bad

son) about my role in this. I try to cause three

meals a day to happen and earn enough outside

to pay some bills. My father has proved useless.

I guess no one is surprised, though every now

and then I hope.

C L Couch

Robert Gramner

Just a lost key by a popular running trail.

October 14, 2018 0

Nykea Aldridge

Nykea Aldridge

(Chicago, Illinois)

She was a mom—I

Have to say was—on

Her way to school

To register her child,

Her younger charge

In a stroller Nykea

Was also attending

She was shot and

Killed; two brothers

Are now charged

There’s so much I don’t

Know, but we know

This:

Parents should not

Die this way, nor should

Anyone

August 29, 2016 6

Refuge

Refuge

(listening to public radio)

A man is interviewed

Via translation

I lost my daughter in

The explosion

Here is a picture of her

There are two;

She was twin to the

Daughter I still have

Paper riffles, passing

The photograph back

And forth

Her mother is gone, too

He does not say his

Wife

I wonder if he says

“Mother” instead,

Because this is

The relationship that

Must matter now

The mother of his

Living daughter died,

And he must see to

That for her

Or is it that he cannot

Bring himself to say

Again, my wife

August 3, 2016 5

Writing Prompt: Describe your worst ever Thanksgiving meal.

while wrestling with recall, it turns out what should have been the worst day turned out not so bad–a terrible time, a moment of grace

Cathartic Thanksgiving Day

My worst Thanksgiving ever. Hmm, I can’t recall. Not that Thanksgivings were always grand. But they tended to be good. The years my mom was dying from cancer. I can’t imagine those Thanksgivings were good. I was trying to visit her in the hospital each day or taking care of her when home, trying to take care of the house, trying to work a job across the city.

But I think for the holidays my siblings came to town, and I had a holiday of sorts unto myself. I didn’t cook or do much of anything except sit still. And Thanksgiving Day was peaceful. Same thing at Christmas.

I probably felt tired and numb at heart. The constant pace of covering everything increasingly took its toll by coring out my spirit of enthusiasm, which I then learned to manufacture. I felt bound to provide for my mother and others, though more and more I felt little else. But it seems that in my memory of mind (though I wouldn’t trust myself to be my own life’s reliable narrator), I can recall the long table in the dining room space, all around the table the folk that I’m related to. Lots of containers filled with many things, turkey in the center, carved. Glasses we could make sing by rubbing fingers around the rim, which always bothered someone (I can’t recall whom). A hum of conversation with a layer of laughter on the top, like whipped topping on the pie. (Always more than one actual pie.)

A good day in a miasma of sad and difficult time. An anodyne. Better yet, a day of grace.

There would have been two such Thanksgiving days while my mom was sick. The third year I think maybe there was little celebrate or nothing at all. And within a year or so, I moved out, as everyone had gone before over several years’ time. Leaving my dad who later left on his own, too.

C L Couch

image from http://www.kutkupret.com and Google Images

not dissimilar from our actual table; even the chandelier looks right, though our walls were white

now off to make a turkey sandwich