Another poem about my mom. With the increase of the “trad wife” movement here in the U.S., I’ve been reflecting on my mom and her role as a traditional wife.
My mom preferred George
and I remember listening to
her and her best friend
giggling over their preferences,
a shock that she would
even know their names.
Well, she was my mom,
and that meant she cooked,
cleaned, all the chores
that women did when
homes were ruled by husbands
and children played in bedrooms
and spied around corners.
What feelings and fantasies
did she keep hidden,
the dutiful executive wife,
shown off at office parties,
a smile painted on her face,
a mask worn for a role
I learned she never wanted?
Perhaps she shared her secrets
as she played her hands,
bridge club a ruse
to show her cards:
or could be her beautician
was her priest, a confession
of desires as scissors clipped.
Her childhood was not easy,
her teen years spent adjusting
to her mother’s sudden death,
caring for her younger brother
as her older sister dated,
then she, a young bride herself
to a soldier gone to war.
She managed her emotions for others,
hands wringing in worry at night,
because to do otherwise
would be a sign of weakness.
She was a woman who spent her life
doing the expected, as was expected
for a woman of her time.
Whatever dreams she carried,
unspoken,
we buried with her,
unrealized.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Written on 2026-06-28 at 02:00
Tags Mother Tradition
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Constrained
Paul was my favorite Beatle.My mom preferred George
and I remember listening to
her and her best friend
giggling over their preferences,
a shock that she would
even know their names.
Well, she was my mom,
and that meant she cooked,
cleaned, all the chores
that women did when
homes were ruled by husbands
and children played in bedrooms
and spied around corners.
What feelings and fantasies
did she keep hidden,
the dutiful executive wife,
shown off at office parties,
a smile painted on her face,
a mask worn for a role
I learned she never wanted?
Perhaps she shared her secrets
as she played her hands,
bridge club a ruse
to show her cards:
or could be her beautician
was her priest, a confession
of desires as scissors clipped.
Her childhood was not easy,
her teen years spent adjusting
to her mother’s sudden death,
caring for her younger brother
as her older sister dated,
then she, a young bride herself
to a soldier gone to war.
She managed her emotions for others,
hands wringing in worry at night,
because to do otherwise
would be a sign of weakness.
She was a woman who spent her life
doing the expected, as was expected
for a woman of her time.
Whatever dreams she carried,
unspoken,
we buried with her,
unrealized.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Written on 2026-06-28 at 02:00
Tags Mother Tradition
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
