When my mother died, she left behind a will,
15 decks of bridge cards, 4 white sweaters,
5 cartons of Craven A, 20 packets of Nicorettes,
no bottles of whisky or gin, but 23 medallions,
2 Big Books, and essential instructions inked
in her loopy cursive hand on index cards—
Aunt Cora’s carrot cake recipe, how to fix
your golf swing, the serenity prayer. Also
a cut crystal jar filled with Hall’s honey
mentholyptus cough lozenges. The little ones
wrapped individually in waxed paper and printed
with inspirational sayings. A pep talk
in every drop! I miss her. The way
we never said much, but sat together watching
birds we couldn’t name. How we’d kayak
to Cape Porpoise whistling when we got scared.
Now I reach into the jar, unwrap her voice. She whispers:
Be Unstoppable. Put a little strut in it. Push on.
–
Nancy Huggett writes, lives, and caregives on the unceded Territory of the Anishinaabe Algonquin Nation (Ottawa, Canada). Thanks to not-the-rodeo poets and Trailheads, she has work out (or forthcoming) in American Literary Review, Literary Mama, One Art, and Poetry Northwest. She’s won some awards and a gazillion rejections. She keeps writing.