Velma Joyce

Today, I realized,
is your birthday.

If it had been mine,
and you were still alive,
there would've been a card in the mail,
"Always remember,
you're Mamaw's angel."

I would've gone to your house
(oh, the 1970s wood paneling).

climbed up in your recliner
(the beige one I got you for Christmas).

and hugged you thanks
(worrying all the while
about how damn skinny you were).

We would've shared grilled cheese
and skillet fries,
whiskey in Mason jars.

But today is your day,
and here's the best I have to offer:
no cake,
no ice cream, just
that
I was accepted to law school,
found out yesterday afternoon.

I reached out to call someone
then realized that you
are
gone.

your husband, my Papa?
gone.

my Grangie?
gone.

my other Papa?
gone.
just this month past.

I can hear all of you,
a chorus of scratchy voices,
the sound of country ricocheting
of of every word,
consonants rounded, vowels drawn long and soft...
"Sugar, we are so proud."
and
"Well, babe,
that's what happens
if you just try."
and worst, or best,
"We sure do love you."

So, Mamaw,
I hope you know.
In lieu of a call,
I send you this poem.
I'm doing my best
to make you proud.
All the rest of you, too.
No more jail.
No more coke.
No more DWIs,
no more pills,
and no more razors
against my arms.
And in the absence of negatives,
a few positives.
I'm writing again,
publishing even,
swimming well,
staying strong,
being kind to others and,
usually, myself;
even (and best)
going to school.

Your memory colors so many of my days.
If I could be half as good as you were
(kind words,
even if sometimes undeserved,
generosity that warmed me
on my coldest days),
I would be better
than I ever dreamnt I could be.

For now, though,
I say
Happy Birthday.
I miss you.
I got in to law school.
I miss you.
I
will

make this life a good one.

I miss you.