My mother's diary

This poem is in response to a prompt from Margo Roby's poetry site.... something from an ancestor in their voice.

The first thing I thought of was my mother's diaries. Well, hardly diaries, more small books in which she wrote detailed lists in tiny writing of all she had to do. They are precious to me and it is probably time for me to read them again. If one reads lists in any true sense.

In many ways they reflect her life so accurately. She was a Virgo, but suffered from anxiety and depression and lived in so many ways a small, cramped, measured life. In her forties she developed rheumatoid arthritis which limited her even more.


In tiny shreds of writing,
I offered up my words,
in lists inconsequential,
of what I had to do.
Buy soap. Wash hair.
Post birthday card.
Cut nails and iron dress.
Write letter to my sister.
Soak underwear tonight.
In pencilled, leaded
offering, I wrote it down
to last, that I would be
remembered; that you
would know my past.