Memories

POLISHING MEMORIES

I have no time to sweep the floor.
The piano collects dust like never before.
The wastebaskets are full; there are marks on the wall.
The telephone’s ringing - - - can’t take any calls.

I’m sitting here rocking my tiny new son.
Closing my eyes to the days work not done.
I know from experience the future becomes past.
These moments are treasures; I want them to last.

Long after he’s grown I’ll sit in this chair
and feel the soft touch of his baby fine hair.
I’ll rock by this window till the first star appears,
polishing the memories of my childbearing years.

~Patricia W. Hiscock

This poem has been framed and sitting on my parent's piano for, I dunno, 15 years at least. There was a few years there, believe it or not, that I dabbled in the fine art of piano playing. I think I realized, however, that piano playing wasn't for me when I'd play in recitals not to show off what I had learned but for the creme puffs my teacher served afterwards. It wasn't that I didn't like playing, I just didn't like practicing. My parents put forth a valiant effort though, making me practice everyday for 30 minutes. It's safe to say I spent many an hour staring at this poem, reading it over and over and eventually memorizing it. I thought it was a nice poem. I like poems that rhyme, so this worked for me. Little did I know how these words would take on a profoundly stronger meaning to me years down the road.

Ben doesn't really sit in my lap any more. In fact, tonight as we pulled books out to read before bed he patted the seat beside him and said "you sit here, mommy." Notice I said beside him. I'm already treasuring the moments with him. And if you know me at all you'll know that I am not one to pick dusting over sitting with my son. And I'm thankful for that, I really am. My house tends to have a bit of clutter here and there, it takes me awhile to finish any project I start and, truth be told, I can't remember the last time I swept. What I think happened as I sat on that bench as an 8 year old, day dreaming about being a mommy instead of running my scales, is this poem wasn't only pressed into my memory but folded into my heart. I remember rocking Ben when he was an infant and the words of this poem would wash over me and I'd close my eyes, breathe in the sent of his newborn hair, and tell myself I'll pick up the house in a couple of minutes, or a couple of years.

There are many, many times when I wish I would be a little more proactive in the house keeping department of life. I wish I was a bit more self motivated and that I didn't need another person to hold my hand and cheer for me so I'll finish a project. But then I think about all the time, real time, I've spent with Ben, just sitting with him. Talking about what he dreamed about the night before or thinking about what shirt he'd like to wear. I think about times like yesterday when Ali and I were cleaning out the play room in order to turn it into Addie's room (yes, she's nearly three months old and yes, we're just now doing her room) when Ben jumped on my back and wanted to play horse and cowboy and instead of brushing him off and telling him to wait just a minute, I gave him a cowboy hat and pranced around that room until we both fell on the floor laughing. I can always clean the playroom, but how much longer will Ben want to play horse and cowboy with me? How much longer will Ben want to play with me at all?

So I'm thankful for this poem. Maybe I'll frame it and put it where Addie can read it over and over. And maybe she'll think of it as she sits holding a little baby of her own someday and maybe she'll think about sitting just a little bit longer.

Thank you for this memory, mom.