A love letter to Marilyn. A play on two Billy Collins’ poems, my mother’s favorite poet.
Since childhood, there has existed a thrumming undercurrent in my life. A fascination with her remarkable shoes and an obsessive quest, not to fill them, but to leverage the inspiration of them. A journey in which I fashion for myself the most fanciful and audacious pair of shoes. A shiny, bejeweled pair, befitting my own feet, invoking the marvel and fascination of others, the way my mother’s summoned mine.
Insert childhood photo…standing in Mother’s shoes.
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine…
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the pink mist of sunrise behind ancient Firs
and the gentle brush of a cat against the leg.
You are the click of patent leather pumps
and the silk of ball gown gloves.
You are red geraniums in spring
and the pillbox hat of wedding white.
You are NY Times crosswords and Jeopardy,
the smell and feel of old books,
shadowy whisper filled corners,
and the moistened slip of index cards between thumb and forefinger.
You are not, however, Zelda’s hat,
the salty, green sea splash,
or the yellow jonquil.
And you are certainly not the waterfall in a hidden cove. There is no way you are the waterfall in a hidden cove.
It is possible that you are the honeysuckle fragrance on the dusty path,
maybe even a dirty limerick told on a Sunday,
but you are not even close
to being the fireflies at forest’s edge at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither cartwheel, cannonball
nor the wind-filled sails of a shock wave.
It might interest you to know,
invoking the plentiful imagery of the world, as Billy would say,
that I am the rustle in the backyard trees.
I also happen to be the crafted letter tucked in the pages of a book,
the recently caught salmon packed in the cooler,
and the sombrero and can of coke left on the kitchen table.
I am the glittering twins in the night sky
and a grandmother’s delicately applied makeup.
But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife.
And let us not forget, you are also the crystal goblet,
just maybe not the wine.
Is it possible that we are both – somehow – the wine?
You will always be the precious whisper of beauty after a knock on Heaven’s door.
And as if to make us somehow even, I offer in the form of poem and prose, my plastic crafted lanyard, made out of boredom at some distant summer camp, with the help of a counselor. Then ruefully admit, as Billy did, that you can never repay your mother. You will tuck it in your purse for decades, possibly, while I raid your closet, trying on every single pair of your fabulous shoes.