I Remember Mama

                                                                                        

            Sitting on the porch of our old cabin, I watch as the sun casts soft colors of violet, yellow and blue across the shimmering lake. The water is smooth and still, not a ripple forms in the quiet morning hour and I remember Mama. The only sound is from the old chair, creaking softly as I rock. Childhood lullabies brush across my heart filling me with a familiar warmth. Beside the shaded cabin, Baby Tears have made their way slowly, covering stones, twigs and the moist dark earth, leaving a mossy cushion of green. I place my hand on the spongy softness leaving an imprint that will soon fade. The aroma of coffee brings me into the cabin. The boiling pot sits on top of an old pot bellied stove.  My mother and grandmother used this same stove in summers past.  The coffee grounds have not settled as I pour the steaming hot drink into my tin cup, a few grounds float on top. Somehow this comforts me.                                                                                                                                                                                I bring my coffee to the waters edge and wait. Wait for my day to unfold in this Maine Paradise. In the winter months, Maine is spread with a white blanket, but for now the heat of the summer sun warms me. Giant boulders provide a perfect place to spread a towel and lie in the gracious sun. My mother lay on this same rock when she was young, her long hair hanging to her waist, her skin brown and glowing. The cool water accepts me refreshing my hot skin.  Floating on a raft, I rest my head on my arms and watch as a duck leads her ducklings across the lake. Their little brown heads dip, their tails point skyward, tiny webbed feet paddle quickly, as they catch their morning meal. Mama duck reaches the other side first quacking loudly until all her babies are gathered around her. The ducklings nestle in her protective feathers as she spreads her wings.  A lone fisherman rows to the middle of the lake casting his line into the dark water. He will have fish for dinner, fresh trout fried in a cast iron skillet over a camp fire, each piece of fish gently dipped in cornmeal and cooked to a golden brown. 

            Standing on top of the boulder, I face the far side of the lake.  Willows gracefully dip their slender branches, dancing on the water. White Cedar and tall Pines stand side by side, their limbs intertwined. A deer approaches; cautiously she makes her way to the water. Her ears alert, her delicate neck arched, she remains still until she feels safe enough to drink, then prances back into the dense woods.  The fisherman rows to shore, his dinner strung on fishing line tied to the back of his boat. After he makes his craft secure he places his catch in a waiting cooler. Taking off his hat he dabs his brow with a cloth as he continues to stand at the water’s edge. He seems reluctant to leave, the peace of the lake has drawn him in, he sees me and waves I return his greeting.  Maybe I’ll have fresh fish for dinner too. Turning, I face my cabin, there is movement inside; small voices reach me announcing they are ready to greet the day. My mother’s sweet voice floats on the gentle breeze whispering in my ear, and I know she is with me.