This poem shows how fine is the line between remembering and imagining.
My Mother in Maine
By Nijla Mumin
Every time my mother cooks fish,
she tells stories–
how her mother preferred sole to flounder,
grandma’s hands caked with cornmeal
as Mahalia Jackson testified through song.
Catfish was a cardinal sin, too slimy
but snapper found a home in her hot oil.
In a former life,
I imagine my mother in Maine.
A fisherman’s wife
Hugging docks
and throwing gillnets into heavy tides,
waiting for lobsters to get lost in them.
Singing a sea chantey
while she guts whiting for dinner.
I imagine her setting sail by herself,
a better fisherman
than her husband ever was.
My mother, an aquatic being
slumbering atop the deck of a boat,
her face amist with the wet
of a Wednesday morning sail.
Nijla, you have painted a pretty picture of a life I knew as a young woman. The visualization of your poem strikes home.
Lovely.