Neatly Put Away

My mother’s in a box, all neatly put away.
Her singing Three Little Fishies at the dinner table;
her not-quite stern reminders: “I hope you’ve done your homework”
her working turps and oils on canvas into a radiant heat;
her lisping Castillan;
her Judy Garland imitation;
her temper and impatience;
her memories of her old fashioned aunts we never met;
her imprecations, “Oh dear GOD!”
her prayers;
her love of children;
her faith in her husband:
all have gone the way of seamed stockings,
twenty-five thousand dollar New Jersey farmhouses,
and neighborhood clambakes among the mosquitos.