I remember a boat made of sand.
My mother hand-carved it on the beach
while my sister and I followed Daddy
to the ice-cream van in search of cones.
The boat was simple, we sat inside
and pretended to be pirates.  To me,
That boat was (still is) a work of art.
We were sad when it was washed away
but there was always next year.

I remember a cake on my fifth birthday.
Home-made, in the shape of my favourite
children’s television character.  It was
The best present I received that year.
I still have a photograph of it, imperfect;
It would have won no decoration awards.
But to my five-year-old mind (and now)
it was the most perfect thing I had ever seen.
No cake could ever live up to my birthday cake.

I remember a sleepover with my ‘bestest’ friends.
We were small, loud, bouncy things – so young.
Mummy bought plain pizza bases for us
and lined up every topping imaginable
in little bowls.  We had fun; the kitchen covered
in tomato puree and mashed tuna fish.
But Mummy kept on smiling.  Her little girl
was having fun, her friends were having fun.
That was all that seemed to matter.

I remember the end of my ‘first love’; devastation.
My mother, the expert on such matters
produced a bottle (or three) from the cupboard.
We sat, and drank, and giggled, and gossiped
about the bastard who didn’t know
what he was missing, about love and life
and all sorts of things in-between.
She must have had other plans for her evening but
her daughter was crying; she was needed.

I remember leaving.  Going off to my own home;
My mother helped me pack, and fussed
about whether I would have enough towels
and cans of nutritious soup in my cupboards.
I could not have refused the bag of frozen food
she insisted I take on moving-in day,
nor the endless cups of tea she provided
while everything was moved into my new lounge
and I panicked about how I was going to cope.

I remember so many things, nearly two decades
of love and understanding, comfort and tolerance.
Mostly I remember my lack of thanks,
though she insists now that she knew I thought it.
I can’t make up for my ungrateful past now
but she understands, I hope.  She will, I think
feel some small sense of justice as I set off now
on my own mothering adventure.  I look forward
and hope I can live to be as good as Mummy.