My Mother After All

I do so wish the mirror near

would lie to me just one time

And let me see Angelina Jolie 

Or Hepburn in her prime.

Instead it taunts me each pale morn

as fluorescent lights do hover,

That I’ve become, since I was born,

A reflection of my mother.

Her platitudes of, “Don’t wear that,

People will think we’re poor”

Are word for word, though absurd,

Straight from her general store.

If by chance, you dare slipped by

The front door sans inspection,

Such great dismay, your jeans are frayed !

Here comes wardrobe intervention.

Stand up straight and eye contact

All tied to "please" and "thank you"

Understand chain of command

as in; All adults outrank you.

Never use a salad fork,

When a dinner fork is needed,

And elbows off ! Those who scoff

May find their seats, unseated.

I hear myself bark out in verse

A litany of her best hits,

“Why buy the cow?” or “Speed the plough!”

And yes, wear it, "if the shoe fits".

I miss her quirky sage advice

Her terms of non-surrender,

Her midnight calls, her lack of walls,

Her radar for pretenders.

We shall not see her kind again,

As she would oft remind me.

But DNA, shall have its way

Just look for her, you’ll find me.

Mother, sister and Leon

This is one of those moments again. The second I saw this news, I started to text my sister Ellen about it. Then came the moment when I stopped typing because she’s not here to receive it , she is gone forever, and so is the reason why we would even care about Leon Redbone dying. 

But I will tell you all why because it needs to be in a frame of reference somewhere to someone other than myself...my mother, Regina, wasn't a fan of music in general , in fact the radio was was never on in her car and we were NOT allowed to listen to it when we drove with her. She deemed most modern music as pure noise , with the exception of (no judging here) The Grand Canyon Suite by Gofe’ , and anything by Dean Martin and Leon Redbone. 

True fact, the only Christmas music Regina owned was a Leon Redbone Christmas album which is now a part of my permanent collection and one I would torture my sister Ellen with every Friday after Thanksgiving.

Don't try to analyze this strange collection of completely divergent tastes (although Leon and Dean had that same epiglottal vocal style ) it will only send you off into a whirling vortex of psycho analysis that ends with someone assuming the fetal position as you hear your mother sing along with Leon on “Seduced”. 
Looking back as an adult, I wish we had joined in and sung it loudly with her and laughed instead of acting like judg-y daughters , but back then, that was our job and a most silly wrong one.

I apologize posthumously to Leon for never really giving him proper cred as a musician, because he was erroneously branded as that strange pinstripe suit guy my mother allowed in her most stringent and puzzling of musical repertoires.
He is now gone, but his music does live on , that great touch of immortality that some lucky musicians do enjoy. 

So when I hear “Seduced” , I laugh and sing it out of the side of my mouth with as much nasal sound as I can produce and sending it out to Ellen and Mom.

In my heart I know that they are are singing and laughing along with me and now Leon has just joined in.