the lanyard

My son-in-law, Sam, writes a blog. He educates me in the ways of poetry on that blog, featuring poems on a regular basis by some poets I’ve heard of and others I have not. This one by Billy Collins has stayed stuck in my mind ever since Sam shared it a few days ago:

"The Lanyard

The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past --
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift--not the archaic truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even."

This made me think a lot about Mama Rosemary, the woman who has dedicated her life to hundreds of African children, most of whom have lost their parents to war or to HIV/AIDS. Day in and day out, Rosemary gives all she has to give to make it possible for these children to have food, clothing, shoes, shelter, education, love and encouragement. I admire her. We have become friends; she prefers saying we are sisters. She calls me Mama Gloria – I call her Mama Rosemary. We are the same age, and we are married to men who are the same age, men who are equally committed to these children. She works on the ground 24/7 getting dirty hands, a tired back and sore feet as she gives these kids their only real shot at survival. I work from my kitchen office to raise money and awareness so she can continue. The children like to say they have two mamas now.

Rosemary and Otim, a child at the orphanage

I don’t know what Rosemary receives in terms of material gifts from the orphans. I imagine they must make her a drawing or a necklace every now and then. As for me, I get wrinkled, smeared and smudged letters of thanks. I have received drawings and little beaded bracelets. The handmade presents that make their way from Uganda to my doorstep in Kansas City are as precious as anything anyone has ever bestowed upon me. They are my lanyards, I guess, and, just as with handmade gifts from my own two children, Abbie and Max, they really do make everything “even” (although I am not measuring.)