A Poem for Mom's Birthday

My mom, Laurel Jean [Lemke] Sauvageau turns 80 years young next Monday, March 16th. Five years ago, I wrote this poem for her 75th, and since it was peak Covid times, there was no possibility of my spending that day with her in Fargo. So, I reached out to friends and family to ask them to read lines of this poem to her, then I edited it together and played a dumb little piano melody in the background. I’m happy that I’ll get to spend her 80th with her next weekend. Please join me in celebrating my #1 Substack fan: Mom Sauvageau.My mom has struggled with arthritis for the past sixty years. The disease has caused painful swelling in her joints and she’s had countless surgeries and tried various medications with very little success. She has had flexor tendon surgeries that fused together the tendons of multiple fingers in order to allow the fingers at least some range of motion. She’s had joint replacement surgeries in her knuckles and lately those replacements have started to fail. Aside from the physical pain, which I’m sure is constant, Mom also faces an emotional strain. With hands that don’t look like they used to, I’ve often caught people staring at Mom’s hands. Her subconscious reaction is to hide her hands. And I always thought that was a tragedy, because I know the beauty that Mom produced with her hands over her lifetime. She was a cross-stitcher, a painter, a pianist. She made lunches and dinners for my sisters and I, cleaned toilets and litterboxes, chauffeured us wherever we wanted to go. And that’s where this poem comes in.Hide Not Your HandsHide not your hands, which you balled into walnut-sized fists, at your christening: so small, they named you Bitsy. Hide not your hands, which you tucked into armpits while your “dad” wrapped his rough hands around an axe handle and hacked your piano to kindling. Hide not your hands, which scribbled love letters to your man in Vietnam, Hands you posed on your hips in a picture sent to him in your bathing suit by the banks of the Red River. Hide not your hands, which quakingly cradled coins for the Fotomat man. Hide not your hands, which clutched rosary beads like pearls on your wedding day. Hide not your flintlock hands, which thrice sparked life into this world: Hide not your choral hands that hummed our tiny baby backs. Hide not your mermaid’s hands that splashed us in the bath. Hide not your gymnast’s hands, which balanced salt and sweet of bars. Hide not your patient hands, which wished on shooting stars. Hide not your nurse’s hands that sutured patches onto jeans. Hide not your teller’s hands that banked bologna onto cheese. Hide not your bassist’s hands, which jazzed up shirts with puffy paint. Twist not your anxious hands for all the things you can’t constrain. Hide not your distant hands, which mailed cookies to me at sea, Hide not your nearby hands, which passed a rose to me, on the pier. Hide not your choral hands that hummed your grandkids’ baby backs. (Grandkids who turned Bitsy into Bokie) You hid your hand after one of your operations: It was Christmastime at the airport and your hand was wrapped up in a velvety red stocking with a raven, feathered cuff. You held your hidden hand close to your heart, as you kissed my cheek, gripped me in a hug, and whispered I’ll show you in the car. It glowered like a bionic weapon; metallic exoskeleton with springs, harsh and brittle, spindly thing. For weeks, you kept that stocking in the car, in case you had to pop into a store. It tore apart my heart (that you should ever hide your hands). The disease and surgeries have pulverized your poor hands: buckled knuckles, flattened phalanges. Your left ring finger no longer fits your ring, but your hand clasped dad’s tightly when you danced at your golden anniversary. In each photo you do your best to hide your crooked hands. I know the technique well. It’s the same way with my teeth. It’s the same way with us all, when something’s hidden underneath. But hide not your hands which have held, and bled, and toiled, and shared only love and generosity, for three quarters of a century. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bluecollarfugue.substack.com