The doily

doily

One of my mother’s doilies
rests now by my bed awaiting
its goodnight caress. It is,
in truth, a tacky little thing
made of bright garish colors
knit square into a rainbow-like
affair. It is the sort of thing
I would have crucified her over
had I seen it before she died.
She loved that, you know,
laughing out loud in my face.

A doily is a small ornamental mat or table napkin usually handmade of lace or linen. My mother was an insomniac and so had a penchant for making these during the many long nights she was up and awake.

Make no bones about it, it is a tacky little thing and I really would have teased her unmercifully over it if I had seen it before she died. And now…well, obviously now, it is one of my many small treasures. We collect them—small treasures—don’t we, as we grow older?

I hope something of my mother’s wonderful, vibrant and strong personality rings through this poem, although truth be it known, no words of mine could ever really capture her amazing vitality or strength of will.

It has been many long years since my mother’s passing in 1988, but still, I miss her, very, very much.

Thank you for reading The doily. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.

john

© 2013 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2013 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.

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10 Comments

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10 responses to “The doily

  1. I love hearing from the guys on their mother – not enough of them. You paint some lovely pictures through the poem.

    https://aholisticjourney.wordpress.com/2013/03/28/polling-my-readers-what-is-the-greatest-gift-your-mother-has-given-you/

  2. I can tell from your words that you had a wonderful relationship with your mother, John. Lovely piece and the fact that you teased and laughed with each other… something always to treasure.

  3. I’m catching up a bit with you this morning, having spent the last week in Italy’s beautiful mountains. I especially love this one, and the picture too. Your poems begin to tell me things about John, the boy. I like him 🙂

    • Oh, I’m not sure that is wise at all! Young john was arrogant enough to be an ass and fool enough not to know it. The years did, I hope, a good job of rounding off the sharp corners of his ego. He can even, almost, now, go out in public for short stints and seem even human!