My Mom

My oldest grandson did not get to meet my mom, his great-grandma. I wish he could have. She was a neat lady, determined to do what she set out to do, and full of love for others. I wish he could have met her.

Your great grandson is only four
but he's heard the songs from the forties.
"Abba Dabba Honeymoon,"
"Me and My Shadow,"
"Playmate, Come Out and Play With Me,"
"Teddy Bear's Picnic,"
songs you sang to Gayle and me
when she was three and I was four
and more.
Maybe someday he'll get to meet Mrs. Doodenlopper.
She used to come take care of Gayle and me.
She looked like you.
We said, "You're our mother!"
She always replied, "Oh no,
she's at the store. She'll be home soon."
Then we would have tea and giggle
when Gayle was five and I was six
and more.
He'll never get to see the doll furniture you made
for Gayle and me from orange crates
with a hammer, nails, and your butcher knife
when you were pregnant with our brother.
They made a dandy kitchen with
empty thread spools for knobs.
We wore them out playing house
when Gayle was six and I was seven
and more.
Darlene Estlow©March, 2004

1 thought on “My Mom

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