Mother and Daughter, July 2008

Last summer we, your four adult children,
thought we would be burying you before
Christmas, next to dad on one of Colne’s
green hills. So, today I kneel, weeding your soil
at eight a.m., having woken at four when the sun
pointed long fingers through the skylight in the loft
extension you built after he died.
You emerge from the conservatory.
You stand over me in your English garden,
your robe, quilted and embroidered with roses,
snags on the hydrangea bush as you lean forward
without the aid of crutches. You forget
to use your knees to protect your lower spine
which from experience, we both know is not
sensible. Legs astride, you say: “I usually squeeze soil
from the weeds with both hands like this.” Your hands
clench unclench clench close to my face, veins
like green-blue rivulets, your fingers like mine, cracked
from dry weather–hands I watched for years as they
fashioned puppets from papier-mâché, molded
pastry for meat and potato pie, crafted Victoria
sandwich cake, or stitched sunflower hot pants
(matching sets for my sister and I).
I manage to reply without gritting my teeth,
I give you my reasons for using the trowel–
you watered yesterday, so the clay soil
will not crumble as easily as Lancashire cheese.
To my ears, I sound patient. But you know me
so well. You know how close I am
to reminding you that at forty-seven years
I have owned a few gardens myself,
acquired a number of practical skills:
I spackle and paint, shop for bargains, drive, bake,
raise your grandchildren, have bought and sold houses,
moved country (when eight months pregnant),
am, in fact, capable of weeding a patch
of soil without close adult supervision.
When you are no longer there
to micromanage me, how will I know
my adulthood? It won’t be by this list
of skills, but from standing on my own
two feet on American soil unable
to cross the bridge of you back to my childhood.