Your Mother Goes to Work by Carolyn Nakagawa

She arrives at her usual time.
You might visit her often, call to check in, but
I see her every day.

Your mother is wearing her favourite outfit.
Or at least, one I often see her wear.
It is part of my image of her (like the orange on her desk,
in winter, as seasonal as snowflakes in her hometown),
so I hope it is one she likes.

Your mother has been here for many years,
or at least it feels that way.
She does the necessary things without acknowledgement,
as if she is merely breathing.

There are unnecessary things, too.
Even telling her no need, no need—she pours tea, finds spoons.
I shake my head, we all smile.
Soon, I am doing them myself.

You may remember a time, long ago,
when you wanted your mother, and she was not there.
She was helping me.
It might not have seemed like it, at the time,
but she thought you would be okay.
She didn’t tell me this until much later.

Your mother is very patient with me,
with everyone. Did you know this about her?
We tease her for her love of oranges.

One day, your mother will retire, though
it is hard for me to imagine.
We will throw her a party,
order a cake with orange blossoms.
She will pour tea
and no one will bring spoons.
She will find them for us, then go home,
to you, to the others
who belong to her.

This poem was featured in Issue 08 of Canthius.

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Carolyn Nakagawa is a fourth-generation Anglo-Japanese Canadian poet, playwright, and educator who makes her home in the territory colonized as Vancouver, BC. Nakagawa’s poems have appeared in publications such as The Malahat Review, CV2, and The New Quarterly, and she has read her work at Powell Street Festival and Heart of the City Festival. Her plays have been presented by Vancouver Asian Canadian Theatre and Ruby Slippers Theatre. She holds an honours degree in English Literature and Asian Canadian and Asian Migration Studies from the University of British Columbia.