The Raincoat
In this poem honoring her mother, Ada Limón confesses, “I never
asked her what she gave up to drive me,
or how her day was before this chore.” Reading it, I reflected back on all the tee ball, soft ball, football, and basketball games my mother carted my siblings and me to; all the piano lessons, rehearsals, and recitals; all the band performances, karate dojos, summer camps, high school dances, bake sales, doctor’s appointments, . . . the list goes on and on. I don’t remember a single instance of her complaining about the endless time she spent on the road and in the bleachers/auditoriums/waiting rooms. But did I ever stop to ask Mom what it cost her? Or to thank her for spending so many hours of her days this way? I don’t believe I ever did.
So I’m thanking you today, Mom, for every car ride, game, recital, appointment, and event. And for all the innumerable other things you did to help us grow, learn, and go out into the world under the protective cover of your raincoat.
Happy Mother’s Day!
The Raincoat
by Ada Limón
When the doctor suggested surgery
and a brace for all my youngest years,
my parents scrambled to take me
to massage therapy, deep tissue work,
osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine
unspooled a bit, I could breathe again,
and move more in a body unclouded
by pain. My mom would tell me to sing
songs to her the whole forty-five-minute
drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty-
five minutes back from physical therapy.
She’d say that even my voice sounded unfettered
by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang,
because I thought she liked it. I never
asked her what she gave up to drive me,
or how her day was before this chore. Today,
at her age, I was driving myself home from yet
another spine appointment, singing along
to some maudlin but solid song on the radio,
and I saw a mom take her raincoat off
and give it to her young daughter when
a storm took over the afternoon. My god,
I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her
raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel
that I never got wet.
Published in The Carrying (Milkweed Editions, 2018)
