I Remember the Pines - a poem.

Some time ago on this blog, I shared a writing exercise about an early childhood memory that involved walking to preschool with my mother. Here is the more polished, poetic version of that in honor of Mother's Day.

I Remember the Pines

In a memory so old it’s nearly a dream,

but so true its details don't fade,

I recall pine-scented walks

hand-in-hand with my mother.

We were walking to Saint Patrick’s Catholic Church—

for non-Catholic preschool attenders like me—

happily.

Those walks with my mother were precious:

mornings of pine-scented quiet,

so close to home we just walked

but me still too young to go by myself.

I especially recall how

we didn’t have to hold hands—

but we did anyway.

First we came to a stand of carefully planted pine trees,

already old,

a wall of protection between our quaint, safe neighborhood

and the business part of town.

At this dead-end street, there was no sidewalk;

we just stepped over the curb

to the earthen deer path the last twenty feet

to the empty parking lot

leading to the back door of the church classroom.

I’ve always liked trees:

maybe those pine trees started it all?

They stood even taller

to my young eyes,

majestic and special, like little Swiss Heidi’s

for whom the swishing of needle-laden branches in the breeze

became a very nostalgic sound.

Those raised near the coast

may fondly remember the ocean’s pounding surf,

but I, a Wisconsin girl through-and-through,

remember the pines.

Maybe I go back to this memory

just to squeeze my mother’s hand again,

to look up and say, “Thank you for this walk,

thank you for your part in my love of trees,

of morning walks and

quiet neighborhoods.”

I see now that it was an end of an era

of me living at home,

leaving the special last-kid-at-home stage

just before my entrance into a much longer era

of full time school.

Now looking back, it’s encouraging to realize

my memory is not ever of her crying,

never of her holding me back

from going to school, nor from growing up,

but rather of her quietly holding my hand…

taking me there.

-Ellen H.

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