Little Knife

“I’m a powerful thing,” said the Little Knife.
“How is that?” asked the Oak’s jealous wife.
“While others must sing and dance for their life,
I just cut and cut,” said the Little Knife.
“You silly thing!” sang the tree so tall.
“How could powerful be such a thing so small?
You’re not strong or big like me,
Nor up in the winds and always free.
You can’t wave your arms or bend your knees.
You can’t dance with the wind whenever you please!
What a powerful thing, indeed!” laughed the tall tree’s wife.
“You’ll know when I cut!” warned the Little knife.
So with one sharp blade did he cut and he saw,
‘Til the oak tree’s trunk was as thin as a straw.
Then down came the oak with a dreadful crash,
Her arms and her knees broken in a flash,
And she learned for herself, did the Oak’s jealous wife,
What a powerful thing is the Little Knife.
(1928)

Mom’s skill with words and rhyme and her creative, playful mind are very evident here. This rich imagination allowed her to make fresh connections and associations to ordinary things around her (a knife, a tree) and to make poetry out of her ordinary life. I think this is why she was able, even content and happy, to be so home-bound all her life. She didn’t need outside stimulation to stay interested in living, to stay alive, to keep from getting bored and depressed. She never stagnated because her mind, each day she awoke, worked creatively with the things around her…the pots and pans, the children, the news, the sights and sounds outside, the school and play activities her children brought home and shared with her. She lived totally connected to her world and, through her children, connected to the outside world. She didn’t need a driver’s license and a wardrobe to go places, outside friends and clubs and hobbies to keep her interested. She didn’t want them because she didn’t need them.

Mom was self-contained, caught up with raising children and managing the household in her early years, but still living out a vivid inner life and exclusive family life. Even for the 25 years she lived as a widow after dad’s passing away, she lived with family and through family, experiencing what we experienced, sharing what we shared, enjoying what we enjoyed, struggling with what we struggled with. If we kept distant from her or tried to be independent in any way around her, she tried to respect that, but invariably worked her way into our lives.

For me when I lived with her after my divorce, it was always a balancing act to keep my independence from her and my connection to her. “Do you need a new jacket?” she asked one winter evening, as I was leaving to teach a class. I was 50 then! “How was your day today?” she always asked, for as long as I can remember. She was always listening for the door to open, always there to greet me when I came in. And always suggesting a warm cup of tea or cocoa, even though, by 90, she couldn’t really get all this organized, so I had to warm the water, get out the cups and tea bags and sit down for a visit about my day. She was there, connecting, being part of, organizing her day around a cup of tea and her son coming home. It would be easy to misinterpret this straightforward love and interest as being overly mothering, but one reading of this poem alone reminds us that mom possessed a level of connectedness and insight that far surpassed our own and saw in the little things far beyond what we were able to see.