Poems for Mom and Dad

When I think back on my memories (e.g. my childhood or Christmases past), I get snapshots of certain moments, as well as vague impressions of things I did hundreds of times. When I think of my parents, it comes with a lifetime of snapshots and impressions from our shared experiences. I wrote each of my parents a poem to give them an idea of what it’s like to think of them. These poems may be the best gifts I have ever made for my parents. I highly recommend making something like this for your parents when you get a chance.

Writing these wasn’t like banging off a few rhyming couplets on Father’s Day morning. First, I had to write out all of my important memories, then put them in some kind of order, then make them sort of poetic. I don’t expect anyone who’s not my parents (or possibly my sisters) to fully read through them, but I wanted to post them in their entirety to give others ideas of how they could structure something for their parents.

Poem of Memories for My Dad

Rewind: It’s early morning. Dark as night. Our breaths are steamy puffs. Feet hitting pavement in rhythm. You point out Orion. A sprint, a sweaty walk home, glad it’s done, a pat for Willy. Sizzling bacon. How many can I have? French toast. Karate. We do our Katas together. I watch you change a light fixture. I hold screws while you work. It’s summer time. Barbecuing in the rain, camping in the rain, playing Spoons in the kitchen tent. Camping in the sun. A trip to the beach. Tag in the water. Burying Dad in sand. I watch you chop wood. You let me try. You let me go through a whole set of matches learning to light them. A log cabin campfire. Marshmallows. Canadian Railroad Trilogy. I fall asleep – Completely safe – Listening to the sound of my Dad’s guitar and the voices of my family. Water fight or board game night. Will Dad ever lose? T-ball. Then real baseball. You pitch to me as I practice batting in the back yard. I hit it hard! You build me a tree house while I hold nails. I help you weather proof it. You joke about weather proofing the dirt that got on it. Queens Sweaters. “Lucky! squirrel!” He takes a corner too fast. Yip yip yip! skitter, skitter! Bang! We laugh. Lucky keeps going. Missed the squirrel again. A trip downtown. I fall asleep on the bus and wake up on your back – Totally safe. You explain the Big Bang. I explain it to my friend. You try to explain science at the Science Centre. I’m too busy playing. Time to learn to tell time – You take the actual clock off the wall. It feels like I shouldn’t be allowed to play with a real clock. “Dad, I made this pie in your honour! Dad, I made these cookies for you!” Waiting for a movie. “1, 2, 3, 4, buzz, 6, fiz.” The tindal effect. A bag of chips gets opened in a galaxy far far away. A vampire turns to dust. A race for the fluffy pillow. Bribing the dog to stay. A good little Hobbit, the Belgariad. I fall asleep listening to piano practicing and the clinking of dishes. I can hear both my parents. I am safe and content. All is right with the world.

Time Passes: “They’re all too busy thinking about how they look to notice how you look.” I make it to the Speech Arts finals, then lose. We lie on your bed and you read me the Belgariad. You don’t make me go back to school that day. My sisters are away at University. We are the Three Amigos. Congenial dinners together – me, you, and Mom. I drag my feet as I walk into the family room to interrupt your TV show. “Dad,” I say glumly. “I need help with homework.” “Oh!” You say excitedly. What kind?” “Physics” I say, dejectedly. “Oh boy!” I ask a question about carbon dating. Fifteen minutes later I know how a nuclear reactor works. I destroy your Belgariad by bending back the pages. I’m 16. It’s a holiday. We go around and around the GO Train parking lot. “Brake brake Brake BRAKE! Good.” “Sorry, Dad – These cookies are for Rich.” You teach me management skills to help me run the Prefects. You re-teach me a whole year of math before my exam. “Sorry, Rich. I only see sci fi movies with my dad. You can come with us if you want.” 

Time Passes: I buy you a new set of Belgariad books and then proceed to destroy them. “Guess what I learned in psych 101, Dad!” I visit home and it’s like old times. You tell your students about my study skills. “Yes, I could use more money – thank you!” I strive to be the best student I can be to make you and Mom proud. I get an award and get to write a thank you to my favourite teacher. It’s you. My graduation day: So proud to be celebrating with my parents.

Time Passes: My wedding day. A pause before we walk down the aisle. It goes on forever as my heart pounds. I look at you and Mom. I’m ready.

Time Passes: I visit from Kincardine. Time to go. I drive away. You and Mom stand on the front lawn, waving. I feel a little ache as I leave.

Time Passes: Two new lives. Life will never be the same. Will I nurse in front of my dad? Turns out I have to. They never stop feeding! You feed me eggs and bacon while I nurse. You and Mom are there each day. Dishes, bacon, dog walks. Sleeping babies on your chest. Our sweet twins, Jake and Robin. They grow and develop. You see Jake’s first crawl. You and Jake play with light switches together. 

Time Passes Too Quickly: One short year and then the unthinkable. Our boy. Your namesake. Your strong arms hold me as I sob. Life will never be the same. No going back. No more safety and contentment. I’m grateful for my life until now. Some people don’t get even that. 

Time Passes Agonizingly: A slow trek toward life. Then a miracle: A new hope. Two lights in the darkness. Casey and Zach. More dishes, more bacon, more dog walks. More babies lying, warm, on your chest. Life is crazy! No time for anything else. “It’s okay – Dad will hang that picture. Yes, Dad, I guess those three light bulbs could use replacing. Thanks!” Early morning phone calls. Zach steals the phone. Day trip visits. I feel a little ache as you leave. 

70 years you’ve had to make your mark. You’ve certainly made one on me. I teach my own children lessons. Robin falls asleep to the sound of her mother singing. Growing up with love has given me the strength to get through the worst, and the joy to savour the best, that life has to offer. 

And Time Will Pass: So many more books and movies, music and stories to share. As grandchildren grow, through summers and snow. If you need me to, I’ll take care of you. Because, Dad, you’ve earned it… but mostly, because I love you. 

Poem of Memories for My Mom

Rewind: It’s night time. I can’t sleep. You have your arms around me and you are rocking me in the rocking chair. I am completely at peace. I know I am loved. I don’t know any other way. “Good morning, good morning” (tune from singing in the rain). “Cook Porridge, Cook!” We wave goodbye to the big girls and the little girls. I’m your special little helper! “Shouldn’t you be in school?” says the grocery store cashier. We laugh. I’m proud to look big and mature. “Who wants to help with the dishes?!” I tiredly raise my hand from where I lie sick on the couch. I watch you make my bed. I wish I was old enough to make my bed. I help you stir the gravy. I help you make a pie. I just can’t cut the Crisco like you can. You let me make my own special little pie in a rectangular tin. When I’ve eaten it all I still get a piece from the big pie. We make peanut butter cookies. We make Christmas cookies with sprinkles while listening to Raffi Christmas songs. We go for a walk in the rain and I pick up worms and splash in puddles. I love rainy days! It’s sunny now. We go for a walk to the playground. We play Three Billy Goats Gruff on those metal things on the grass. I splash in the wading pool at Adam’s Park. Bath Tiiiiime Iiiiiin Canadaaaaa! Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub. You play with me all through bath time. Bedtime now. I fall asleep to the clink of dishes and the sound of Dad practicing piano. All is well with the world.

Fast forward: It’s the first day of school. I cry. An older boy is worried about me. We’ve always been a team. It’s so different leaving you for school. Fast forward. “Mom! When is school going to start?” “Five minutes.” “1,2,3,4,5! There! Why isn’t it starting?” “That’s five seconds.” Sigh. I knew that. We walk to school in a big group of kids from our street. “Wait for the moms!” Fast forward. It’s lunch time. You make me soft-boiled eggs and fingers of toast. I play Barbies until the sound of the CBC tone that means it’s 1 o’clock. I walk to and from school with a friend now. I open our door to the smell of fresh pumpkin bread or peanut butter cookies. It’s March break: We make teddy bear bread and walk in Colonol Danforth Park as we wait for the dough to rise. We see an otter in the river! You even let me swim in the river once. It felt so fun and free! Now we’re swimming in the pool. “Motor boat motor boat go so slow…” We skate through canals lined by cattails. “You’re a speed demon!” you shout. I grin and push even faster to show off.  It’s summer and we’re berry picking. You pick so much faster than me. I pick slowly and eat a lot of berries, but I am careful that all of the ones in my basket are perfectly red and ripe. We go to Rouge Beach and feed the geese. I can make my bed by myself now. I just don’t want to.

Fast Forward: “It’s a family crisis.” “You said we’d only get a dog in a family crisis!” “I did say that…” “We’re getting a dog!” A little greyish-black fluff ball with a scab on his head puts his head on my shoulder. He’s perfect. You call in again and again to the animal shelter on the day he is up for adoption. He’s ours! I know I will walk him every day. I even keep it up for a while. You’re his favourite after that. That’s okay. He’s susceptible to bribes. Lucky cuddles up in my bunk bed with us as you read me Black Beauty, Little House on the Prairie, and Bookey novels… You’re back to work now. I get home from school and make peanut butter cookie dough by myself. I like my down time. I make pies myself now too. Whether you’re there or not, I feel a special connection to you as I make it. If it’s a special pie, I cry if the crust rips. I make a perfect one and set it on the counter to cool. Lucky pulls it down by the oven mitt it rests on. Now I really cry!

We get a long roll of paper and make a pretend TV, drawing all the pictures of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. We get a huge delivery of toilet paper and throw the toilet paper from one floor of the house to another and back. It’s fun to be so silly with grown ups! We attach a strawberry basket to a string and send messages to each other from the second floor to the front hall. You message says, “I love you.”

Fast forward: Chrissy and Kathy have left home. It’s just us three. We sit at the dinner table chatting amiably. We walk Lucky to the “Doggy Club.” You are always there to listen to my problems and comfort me when I am upset. I stir some gravy and mash some potatoes. I make two pies. One is for us, the other for the church. Our March Break dates are to the mall for some new clothes and a dinner out. Sometimes make-overs and a movie! We still get to the Bata Shoe Museum now and then, though. I’m starting to realize how special our family is, as I learn more about the world. I bring home Rich and you make him a part of the family, right down to his own apron! Oh, it turns out other families don’t wear aprons to eat. Weird! “You’re so creative!” you say. “You would like being an OT. And you don’t have to work weekends!”

Fast forward: I visit from University. It’s like being royalty! I get to choose what we eat for dinner and gorge on out-of-season berries all weekend! Sometimes I run out of money. I make sure to talk to call you about it first before Dad comes on the phone to find out how much I need. You comfort me when I am stressed and applaud me for my successes! I’m so proud to bring you to my graduation and award ceremony.

I become an OT because of you. Because of the encouragement you gave me, the volunteering you helped me get, the job shadowing you set up for me. And in the end, I get a job at Scarborough General because your co-worker recommended me.

Fast Forward: I move to Kincardine. I miss you. I visit, I work (when I hear the sound of the tone on the radio at 1 o’clock, I think of you). I make friends and make a life there. I just can’t make a family. I get a dog. She helps a little. Then…

I get more than I ever imagined. Jake and Robin are born. You pay to rent a cottage in town so you can help us every day. You give us money to hire even more help. Sometimes I stop and think about it and I can’t believe how much you love me. I am an adult and yet you are still here, taking care of me, taking care of my babies. I hope you don’t wear yourself out. I think you are wearing yourself out. But I need you, and when I need you, I know that there is no place you would rather be, because you are my mom and you love me.

Jake dies: “I wish I could take away your pain by having more pain myself,” You say. I don’t want my pain gone. I just want Jake back, but that can’t happen. You try to be my Christmas angel to make Christmas nice for me. You try to be cheery and a good sport, while inside you are hurting like I am. I don’t mind seeing the real you. You don’t need to take away my pain or anything else. Instead, you’ve made me strong by adding in your love. Not just now, but from the moment you knew I existed. Love cannot fix death, but it can transcend it. I am not broken. I am grieving. Your love has made me too strong to be broken.

I want twins again. You warn me that you’re not getting any younger, and can’t help me like the last time. I’m so desperate for a piece of my old life back. I go for twins anyway, knowing you won’t be there like last time. And yet, when it comes down to it, there you are again, renting a cottage, caring for me and my babies. With this new birth, we all start to heal a little more. It feels like Jake sent us this gift.

Little by little, we make our journey back to a happy life. Then, a worldwide pandemic: It feels unreal. I tell myself that it’s better to not see you for a year, than risk never seeing you ever again. It’s scant comfort. And then, time and again, you drive two hours each way, for a chance to drop off toys and activities to us, and sometimes only wave at the children through the door, or see them for 10 minutes from a distance. How am I so loved by my Mom and Dad? We finally relent and I get to hug you through a sheet. I never knew how familiar the feel of my parents’ bodies could be. I would know those hugs anywhere.

And Now: My kids are growing up before our eyes: a big nearly five-year-old with two toddlers in tow. “Cook porridge, Cook!” I say. I tell them the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears as they take bites of porridge. Robin gets her favourite – soft boiled eggs. Zach helps me with the dishes. The kids take turns pouring and stirring ingredients for cookies. We go for walks in the rain and jump in huge puddles. We go for walks in the woods. The dog runs joyfully ahead of us. Zach throws rocks in the river. We go to the beach and play in the sand and water. We feed the birds. Sundays are dessert days. “Bath Tiimmme in Canadaaaa!” They shout along with me as we run to the tub. Robin and I share a piece of pie and ice cream as our own special date after Casey and Zach are in bed. We cuddle up and read a story. They know they are loved. They don’t know any other way. Even when you are not with me, you are with me. I have your love, and you have mine. And your love shines through me to my children, and will echo down generations to come, as parents and children, descended from us, share their lives together, just as we have.

.

---