Frank’s Mema
Frank’s ‘Mema’
It was just a small 2 bedroom house,
From the outside it was ordinary,
It could be any house
On any street
Iin any town-
From the outside.
But one step inside,
And you knew this was no ordinary house.
This was Mema’s house.
You could hear it-
In the chorus of “Hello”s,
That rang out whenever the door opened.
You could smell it-
In the cinnamon sticks,
Simmering on the stove at Christmas.
You could see it-
In the hundreds of “Santy” Clauses Mema Collected.
You could just feel it-
It was a special place.
Sunday mornings at Mema’s house,
There was always a great gathering.
Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Friends-
Anybody and everybody was welcome.
I suppose the official reason
For this weekly family gathering,
Was because that’s what families do-
They gather.
But in truth,
I believe we all came for a different reason.
I know I did.
You see, on the Sunday mornings of my youth,
Mema would make waffles,
Not just any waffles, mind you-
But the best damn waffles I have ever had.
But time passes, and things change.
Eventually I went of to College,
And left Mema’s waffles behind.
During these years Mema left
That old two bedroom house,
And moved into an apartment.
I loved to go visit with her there.
Usually it was just the two of us,
So gone were the chorus of “Hello”s,
And I don’t remember the smell of cinnamon sticks,
But the “Santy” Clauses were still there.
And there was no doubt,
You could still feel it.
This was Mema’s house.
Sometimes we would watch ballgames together,
But mostly we would just talk, and laugh, and smoke.
Sometimes she would repeat things-
Ask the same question two, three times-
But that never bothered me.
Because it wasn’t what was being said that mattered,
It was who was saying it that was important.
And it was these times as a young adult,
That I really think I bonded with Mema.
Cigarettes and conversation seem to do that.
And these were not just any cigarettes, mind you-
But the best damn cigarettes I’ve ever smoked.
But time passes, and things change.
Eventually I moved away,
And left the cigarettes and conversation behind.
During these years Mema left
That old apartment.
And eventually moved into a small room.
With two beds, and a roommate.
Now the “Santy” Clauses were gone too-
But this was still Mema’s.
You could feel it.
I guess what had always made Mema’s so special,
Was not “Hello”s, cinnamon sticks, or “Santy” Clauses-
It was Mema.
Conversation was a little tougher now,
Two, three times became four or five.
But it still didn’t bother me.
And it was here, of all places,
That Mema touched me the most.
I had made a shirt that I liked to wear,
I was so proud of it, simple though it was.
Every time I put it on, it was my secret vain wish,
That someone would comment on it.
But I wore it dozens of times,
And nobody ever did.
Until one sunny afternoon.
Mema, who seemed so unaware of what was going on,
Pointed and said “That is a pretty shirt.”
Five simple words, just five words.
But oh how they mean so much more to me.
Because they came from Mema.
For her compliment was honest and sincere,
One final, beautiful example,
Of a woman who cared for others,
More than herself.
Five words I will never forget.
Not just any five words, mind you-
But the best damn five words I’ve ever heard.
Five Words by Frank C. Permar,
proud Grandson of Dorothy P. Johnson, who passed in 2004 after battling Alzheimer’s for 10 years.
Copyright © 2005-2011 Frank C. Permar
Reprinted with permission.
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