Thursday, September 11, 2014

My Mine                                                                                                                         

As I was going through things that had been long since packed away, I came across this poem, on mimeographed paper, in a simple wooden frame. I think it is in Dad's handwriting, but my mom composed it...I cannot be sure. It used to sit on the bookshelf  in my room at 20 Kenneth Terrace in Stoneham, Massachusetts…My parents gave it to me on the night before I went into first grade, when I turned over the last little square of my favorite white blanket with the satin edging and satin dots embroidered throughout its fleecy soft cloth....a trade or rite of passage perhaps...

I cannot tell you the last time I laid eyes on this poem or the tattered rag, but when I did find this poem among the many bits and pieces from my youth, I smiled, cried and felt my mother’s hug…

“My Mine”
This tattered rag, all faded white,
Use to be my child’s delight.
She held it close around her head,
Thumb in mouth when she went to bed.
She called this bit of comfort “Mine”.
When it was near, all was fine.
But let the darn thing go astray,
We’d hunt and search for it all day.
The first we knew of her love divine,
Was her first word, and that was “Mine!”
She’d reach for it and held it near;
Next to Mama’s arms, ‘twas the thing most dear.
She kept that mine for six long years.
It saw her through all kinds of fears.
And year, by year, it wore away,
‘Til at last ‘twas just this rag of gray.
Now she’s a big girl, at least most of the time,
She’s given up much, most of all her dear “Mine”.
But sometimes when she’s sleeping, I still hear her cry
And find her hand searching, a tear in her eye.
And when she gets married, I’ll give her that day,
A gift she’ll remember, all wrapped bright and gay.
And hope she’ll remember with babes of her own,
That a “Mine” is such comfort, if it’s a “Mine” of your own.