What was it like, in that farm house
beside the Connecticut river
eighty four years ago
when my mother was born?

Did her older siblings
gather round
in joy and wonder and awe?
Did they help with the chores?

And her parents,
did they worry about
another mouth to feed
in the early days of the great depression?

The stories I remember are idyllic
playing by the side of the river
in the warm summer sun
without a care.

But what about the hard times?
Was she ever cold or hungry?
Was she ever picked on
by siblings or classmates?

Years later,
some of the stories came out
on my grandmother’s death bed.
Now, they’re both gone.

So I think of the sunlight
bouncing of the breeze blown ripples
of the slow summer river
and not the privations.

It’s probably what she would want me to remember
anyway