Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

Memories of You
 For my Sister Martha on her 70th birthday

When you were born,
I hugged and kissed you.
I was two, you,
the size of a shoe.

We sisters were like twins,
both born in August,
so like two smarties.
we shared our birthday parties.

I wished I’d had my own cake.
But for your sake,
I held my fork
till the last crumb
and thought of ways
to steal your dolls.

Based on Mother’s wishes
we had to do the dishes
as soon as we could walk
on top of the cupboards
to stow the plastic ware
somewhere in a wet pile
and hoped that Mom
would smile.

You were three and I was five
both still alive —
even though on some days
we fought like rabid cubs
for the freedom to play
and not slave away
with soap and knives.

The first day of school
she dressed you in blue
and me in red, a color
I came to dread
because I yearned for blue.
Boo hoo!

When Mom had four in diapers,
we sang to them like pipers.
And put them in a row
like trucks lined up for toll
to feed them milk and gruel.

Way back then
there were no pampers,
only hampers,
so messy diapers were sloshed in a bucket,
wrung out, washed, dried and folded
after school lest we be scolded.
But Mom was too sick to nitpick
and we, too slick, like wet needles.
You pinned the nappies
to the babies,
and Christopher bears
his scars.

We had pet chameleons —
one named Foxy got lost
in the huge pile of corn shucks
that day we helped Mom can.
You were the one who found him, right?
Before our little lizard almost died.
But we never recovered his eye.

We both adored the Beatles. In secret,
Dad bought us their singles
as those bugs gave us tingles.
We collected their photos
and pinned them to albums
like a new species of butterfly.

We shared a room
forever
until we said, Never!
Because we were
Big Girls. With jobs.
Ready to roam
into our new home.
An apartment by the church,
where mom and dad were married.

Sometimes our lives were harried,
both of us nearly buried
by disease. What ancient trauma
made our legs like stumps?
Twins again. Long stories.

Let’s return to your glories.
I admire your huge heart
and love for the forsaken.
I always brag about your counsel
to those who were transformed
by your loyalty, love, and training.

That letter you wrote me
announcing you were gay
made some people bray
and others pray.
But I replied my love was
here to stay.
I didn’t expect to have your life go
my way.

I’m just so deeply grateful
Mary shares your days
in many bless’ed ways.

I’m certain many know
that you’re an ancient soul
sent to the earth
to give us mirth
and show us our worth.

You were always the brave one.
And I was always anxious.
I think of all your love
as a warm and gentle hug.

Now that our hair is gray,
and we live too far away,
my love for you is still as strong
as all the years are long.

© Barbara Leonhard

Martha, two years younger than me, was my buddy. We helped Mom with the little ones (4 babies Mom had from 1958 to 1961), did chores together, and shared bedrooms for years. Sometimes a double bed. Sometimes bunk beds. We must have had the same dreams because she claims my dreams were her dreams. She was and still is more courageous than I am. I tend to be more compliant, a people pleaser. She is never shy about asserting herself. If it weren’t for her, I would have never left home. I always felt our parents needed help since the family was so large. I had graduated from college and had a full-time job, a break from school and a period of time to decide whether to get a Master’s degree. I was definitely old enough to get my own place.

Like this poem says, Martha pushed me to move out with her and get an apartment. We knew it would provoke our parents. To prepare for the confrontation with Mom and Dad, we sought council with our pastor and his wife. When the day came, we were ready for the emotional backlash. As expected, our parents felt betrayed. They made several threats. Mom threatened that our dad would have another heart attack. There was a threat of a suicide. A reference to a knife. I felt terrible, but Martha and I had already signed a lease. Well that news didn’t go over well!

Tomorrow I’ll post the poem I wrote about that critical time. It’s in my book Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir. It’s been on and off the best-seller list on Amazon.

Amazon Blurb

“Do you love your mother?”

This provocative question provides the catalyst for this stunning poetic memoir from Barbara Harris Leonhard. Through her artfully-crafted poetry, the author considers where her love and loyalties lie following her aging mother’s diagnosis with Alzheimer’s.

Editorial Reviews 

Review

“Barbara Leonhard has given us a memoir that is an intricately woven tapestry of loss, grief, and struggle for reconciliation.”

– Walter Bargen, Missouri’s first Poet Laureate

“Leonhard is a storyteller; her poetry shares lived experience as well as narratives she has listened to or witnessed in her writing journey.”

– Kristiana Reed, Editor of Free Verse Revolution

“I really resonated with these very moving and haunting poems…marvelous work.”

– James Diaz, Poetry Editor, Anti-Heroin Chic