To Mother

1 In this morning's dream, you lived in an elegant, old high-rise atop a steep, rugged hill whose sides had been built up along a winding, narrow road with ancient walls and terraces running down to a great precipice and a panoramic view of the city— a city like St. Louis, but greater, with the green Cathedral dome, lots of red-roofed, public buildings and thousands of colorful homes. In the sky there, your condo adjoined a little boutique that you ran. 2 In my earliest memories you’re only a voice from the kitchen and sounds of pots and pans rattling as I watched TV. Certain years, the voltage of your nerves charged every room in our house and your outstretched palm would strike like a quick snake against my cheek. How did you make the journey up from those desolate flatlands? 3 You first ventured out of the house to an art librarian’s job at the University. I went with you Saturday mornings in spring as the dogwood trees blossomed on campus and you showed me how to tell a Renoir from a Monet. Out of domestic imprisonment you found your way year by year, mentored by a wise crone until you came to fill her shoes, head librarian, grande dame of the busy Clayton Branch. 4 Still, I was surprised to find you up there, in my dream, at the Center of Things. You do still worry too much! If you can't reach me on a Sunday you imagine terrible things. But you’ve come all that way up that dream hill. Now that you’re retired, you’ve still got luncheons to host, dessert spoons to creatively arrange. You’ve still got your flair for design, your exercise class and bridge, faithful relatives and friends. I like to visit up there. I enjoy the view on your hill. I’d hope to have my own hill and be able to see so far.