Steel and Saturdays

Here is a poem I wrote for mother's day.

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By day, she signed papers

in a crisp blouse and quiet heels,

moving metal on paper

at a company that sold pipe and steel—

a woman in a man’s world,

with grace and dignity

never unfurled.

--

She raised us alone—

no dad in the picture,

just her,

made of steel,

yet petite and demure.

--

By night, she made magic—

meals at Monterey House,

chips, salsa, and laughter,

summer vacations: El Paso,

Las Vegas, California—

a trip to Disneyland.

She led us into adventure,

always hand in hand.

--

Saturday nights were sacred:

her bed, cuddled up.

The flicker of Mary Tyler Moore,

Bob Newhart,

and Carol Burnett’s curtain rod dress—

these were the times

I truly loved best.

--

Of course, she never knew

how I tucked trauma under my tongue

while she tucked blankets around me.

I read Richie Rich comics,

while in silence,

keeping a secret.

She worked steel by day,

gave softness by night—

and I never told her of my plight.

--

She didn’t know.

How could she?

I never mentioned

what I couldn’t yet name.

I was scared

and always on alert.

She gave me everything—

except the safety

to say what hurt.

--

I was only twelve when she left.

The truth not spoken in time.

The silence stayed.

And I started writing.

Her hands still tucking me in.

The laughter we borrowed from TV.

The steel in her spine—

and mine.

--

Now I write what I couldn’t say,

laying truth on paper

the way she once laid blankets—

carefully,

lovingly,

never knowing

what hid beneath.

I think learning to speak my truth

is what she truly did bequeath.

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Thanks for reading! - Sam