I wrote Mother in May 2004 and sent it to Momma for Mother’s Day, what turned out to be the last Mother’s Day of our life. A couple of months later she was gone. Momma’s Hands was written then. I miss her and wish her spirit well. Mine will spend the remainder of its life here on earth healing in the light of my children’s love.
Speaking of healing and adding joy, Happy Mother’s Day! to Tammy, Christy, Tommy, Harley Blue, Zedidiah, Danni Jo, and Michelle and Heather! Wish I was there to collect some hugs and eat cake with you all today. I love each of you in myriad ways and the beautiful little People in our Family.
~Mother~
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
She is young in my thoughts, so full of hope she just might burst. That round hard belly, the load she must carry, is part of her. It defies understanding. She must not and does not set it down. Even when it journeys from womb to breast, a cradle her arms make. When it learns to walk her hands take and it walks away but never leaves her. She must not and does not set it down.
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
My load is diminished in the shadow of her courage. I am enlightened to know she is there. Yes, she is
just there. She must not and does not set me down.
Speaking of healing and adding joy, Happy Mother’s Day! to Tammy, Christy, Tommy, Harley Blue, Zedidiah, Danni Jo, and Michelle and Heather! Wish I was there to collect some hugs and eat cake with you all today. I love each of you in myriad ways and the beautiful little People in our Family.
~Mother~
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
She is young in my thoughts, so full of hope she just might burst. That round hard belly, the load she must carry, is part of her. It defies understanding. She must not and does not set it down. Even when it journeys from womb to breast, a cradle her arms make. When it learns to walk her hands take and it walks away but never leaves her. She must not and does not set it down.
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
My load is diminished in the shadow of her courage. I am enlightened to know she is there. Yes, she is
just there. She must not and does not set me down.
~Momma’s Hands~
Momma’s hands held mine, patty-cake, tickling my piggies, baby powder soft. “I was raised by sisters in a Catholic orphanage,” she told me. My tiny fists around her fingers, I learned to walk in Momma’s hands. Momma’s hands offered love and solace, fingers pushing Vicks into my nose, rubbing it into my chest, pinning towels tight around a cold that never had a chance, caressed my face, trembled, that I might be tended by, the awesome healing power of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands knew every part of me, my young and broken heart. A cradle they would make that I would be safe and secure beneath their wings, a tender-keep they were. Brothers and sisters, each and all, gathered within the circle of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands birthing and growing, teaching and knowing when to let go, when to shelter and pull away, the wounds of her life made small by the desire to tend to helpless things, danger held at bay and more ‘neath Momma’s hands.
Something fell Momma down. We gathered in ones and twos in the hospital ICU, doctors and nurses understanding, shaking their heads. “I’m so tired,” she said. They lay limp at her side and I cried at the sight of Momma’s hands.
“Where’s the priest?” “Are those the sisters?” she asked my sister. “Are they coming to tell me what they used to tell me... Wake up, little girl, don’t you cry?” Her voice was thin, “I’m not gonna die.” A tear slid down her face, “I’m going home.”
Later, after she has rested, she is much weaker, once proud lips full, no, clouded eyes, the merciful opiate haze of morphine. Oh, you candle spirit, what are we without you? What is life without her?
Time stops. My lips, one last kiss, those hands, whose job is done are finally at rest. I lift them up, one by one. I kiss them goodbye, Momma’s hands.
In loving memory of my Mother, Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
Momma’s hands held mine, patty-cake, tickling my piggies, baby powder soft. “I was raised by sisters in a Catholic orphanage,” she told me. My tiny fists around her fingers, I learned to walk in Momma’s hands. Momma’s hands offered love and solace, fingers pushing Vicks into my nose, rubbing it into my chest, pinning towels tight around a cold that never had a chance, caressed my face, trembled, that I might be tended by, the awesome healing power of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands knew every part of me, my young and broken heart. A cradle they would make that I would be safe and secure beneath their wings, a tender-keep they were. Brothers and sisters, each and all, gathered within the circle of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands birthing and growing, teaching and knowing when to let go, when to shelter and pull away, the wounds of her life made small by the desire to tend to helpless things, danger held at bay and more ‘neath Momma’s hands.
Something fell Momma down. We gathered in ones and twos in the hospital ICU, doctors and nurses understanding, shaking their heads. “I’m so tired,” she said. They lay limp at her side and I cried at the sight of Momma’s hands.
“Where’s the priest?” “Are those the sisters?” she asked my sister. “Are they coming to tell me what they used to tell me... Wake up, little girl, don’t you cry?” Her voice was thin, “I’m not gonna die.” A tear slid down her face, “I’m going home.”
Later, after she has rested, she is much weaker, once proud lips full, no, clouded eyes, the merciful opiate haze of morphine. Oh, you candle spirit, what are we without you? What is life without her?
Time stops. My lips, one last kiss, those hands, whose job is done are finally at rest. I lift them up, one by one. I kiss them goodbye, Momma’s hands.
In loving memory of my Mother, Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
~A Tear for the Choir~
Poor; she taught us to be proud
Proud; she taught us to be humble
her example of integrity and individuality
true and pure beyond question or explanation
She asked more of herself
and expected it from others
yet never refused to lend a hand
to lost, world-weary, and hungry souls
be they human or beast
One doesn’t say goodbye to her
She created a space in those she loved
to make them stronger
We are come to say hello to those spaces
to sing their praises
to the extraordinary lady
who never knew how to let us down
but gave of herself and just enough
to make us strong
all who carry her song in our hearts
that we might go on without her
In loving memory of my Mother
Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
Poor; she taught us to be proud
Proud; she taught us to be humble
her example of integrity and individuality
true and pure beyond question or explanation
She asked more of herself
and expected it from others
yet never refused to lend a hand
to lost, world-weary, and hungry souls
be they human or beast
One doesn’t say goodbye to her
She created a space in those she loved
to make them stronger
We are come to say hello to those spaces
to sing their praises
to the extraordinary lady
who never knew how to let us down
but gave of herself and just enough
to make us strong
all who carry her song in our hearts
that we might go on without her
In loving memory of my Mother
Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
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Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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