Mama’s Day

Called your Mama yet today? Better yet, gone to visit her?

Ain’t got a Mama? Call or visit someone else’s.

Don’t go out to dinner, cook something together. Like brownies.

Mama’s aren’t perfect. No one is. Most do the best they can with what they got.

My Mama lives over 700 miles away, up Nawth. She married a damnYankee. While I did too, I had the good sense to convert mine over to Southernism and got permission for her to immigrate to the South.

Getting flowers to her at this distance just doesn’t work out. I don’t know what they look like, or what they will send her. You know?

I pick out mushy cards instead, trying to find the one that best represents how we are in our current relationship.

So, called your Mama yet?

Called your Mama yet?
The woman that birthed you?
Had labor for 48hrs in a
snow storm/thunder storm/heat wave/insert-appropriate-cataclysm
while stuck in rush hour traffic?

Twice a year, maybe three,
Mama expects to hear from you.
Mother’s Day, her birthday,
and maybe at Christmas.

Called your Mama yet?
The one that picked you out
from all the others
on the orphanage list?

The one that waited
for the court to decide
who was your mama,
who was family.

Called your Mama yet?
the one that lived down the street
the one that you went to
with questions and problems

Called your Mama yet?
Both of them?
The woman that birthed you
and the woman that married her?

Mama – she who patched your booboo
she who said your clothes didn’t match
who said your hair was perfect
and that pimple didn’t show.