A chair. The simple green wingback chair that’s snuggled in the corner between the towering bookshelf and Shakespeare's watchful gaze. The main library is full of pencils dancing their way around fluttering papered wings, but as I enter the quaint room labeled “Poetry”, the energy of the main hall is left behind me.







***
I can see her sitting there with freshly made snickerdoodle cookies on the coffee side table. Her hair in a low ponytail loosely holding her hair back. Her worn out, stretch-waist jeans and blue fleece turtle neck are still wrinkled from be folded neatly in the draws.I love my beige purse with its gold studs running down the side that reads Coach in the inside flap. It’s a little unconventional for me because my computer doesn’t fit inside of it so I have to carry a separate case around all day, but the extra work is definitely worth it. My purse matches every outfit I have in my closet and adds just the right amount of class to my appearance. I personally am very conscious of how I present myself. When you live in such a big city as New York, you are constantly being judged by the public and future employers, so you always have to look your best. I think of how she would disagree for my choosing of fashion before comfort. Then again, the clothes she wore were meant for days in the dirt while mine was versatile for my hectic life of meetings and office work. I sit down in a chair a few feet away from my mother’s so I can rub my throbbing feet. As my hand massages the balls of my feet, I suddenly notice the ridiculously loud bracelets on my wrist. I quickly take them off, feeling embarrassed to have made so much noise even though no one is here to hear it. My mother smiles as she see me throw the heavy jewelry into my purse.

Laying open in her lap is the leather bound book of Emily Dickinson’s poetry. The sweet smell of aging leather reminds me the lazy days of the crackling fire and hot coffee filling the room with a strong scent of caffeine and sugar. I am sitting on the floor by the fireplace, playing with my dolls while she sits in her chair and read poetry. Occasionally, she looks up from her book and recites a verse. Even though she knew every poem by heart, she would still read them every night, word for word, as if to try and experience them for the first time and capture their beauty.


I went to thank her

But she slept;

Her bed a funnelled stone,

With nosegays at the head and foot,

That travellers had thrown,


Who went to thank her;

But she slept.

‘T was short to cross the sea

To look upon her like, alive,

But turning back ‘t was slow.

I never really knew what it meant. Poetry doesn’t come to me like it did for her. I never really liked poetry and honestly, I still don’t.

I do miss hearing her voice though. She always spoke as though her words cradled a baby bird. Even in the hardest times where everything seemed dark, there was never an edge to her voice that so many people have now-a-days. What I would give for her to read me the poems one last time!

These memories of my mother are overwhelming. But with time, the sadness is slowly being replaced by joy. Joy for the time that I spent with her. Joy for the peaceful memories that stay with me forever.

I miss my mother. I always will. Recalling the memories is all I have left, but it’s enough. Dwelling on the past is like trying to predict the future -- a waste of time.

I watch my mother close her book and set it next to the cookies on the coffee side table. Her eyes meet mine, but then drift over my right shoulder. I follow her gaze to my daughter reading on the library floor. She has forgotten about my iPad that I left her with to play on and instead, is fixated on a book. I leave my bag and shoes with my mother as I go and check on her.

She looks up and hands me the book.

“Can we read this one?”


The old leather smell immediately makes me smile. I read the poem out loud to my daughter as she tries to translate it in her head. I look to my mother who is peacefully smiling at us and I finally understand. She nods her head and slowly fades away. A tear crawls down my cheeks and resides to the page. I slowly return to the green wingback chair and cautiously lower myself into the battered cushions. I close my eyes and hear her voice read the beginning of the poem for the last time.


I went to thank her

But she slept;