"I Am My Mother's Tour Guide"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be posting work by myself each Friday. My mom died in 2002 after a very aggressive cancer devoured her. She always wanted to visit Paris and, knowing she was dying, wrote a poem just before her death about how she wouldn't ever get to go. This is as close as I can get to taking her now.

I Am My Mother's Tour Guide

In Paris, at night,
she drives us around
in our small rented car.
She is more than willing
to explore—she swerves
off the boulevard and
aims us down back streets
and roads so narrow,
we almost can’t fit.
I don’t know
where we are.
In front of us, caught
in the spray of light,
a shopkeeper waves his arms.
He has heard us coming
and tells my mother to
turn the wheels where
he is pointing so
we will only
scrape along the brick
and not get stuck—
a common problem
among tourists in Paris.

We park behind the
Largest Movie Theater In Paris.
The last show is letting out
and people stream by us.
Someone says,
“Nous allons à
un relais routier.
Suivez-nous.”
She wants to know
what was said and
I translate: they’re
going to a truck stop and
want us to join them.
As we follow, we see
lit skyscrapers far off.
I explain that the
business and financial
district is on
the edge of the city
because, over time,
Paris has been built out
in circles from the center.

The truck stop is a diner.
It looks American
and serves American food.
As we enter, we pass
a group of colorful, noisy
North Africans who are leaving.
From our seats we watch
a small Japanese woman
arrive, take off her coat
and hang it on the rack.
She wears a plain
dress of tan felt.
Her neck is bandaged
and through the gauze
I see a thin suture
circling fully around.
When she turns,
we see she is blind.
Her eyelids have
two holes in them
which have been
threaded and sewn shut
with tan cord.
My mother looks
at me for answers.
All I can say is
that Paris holds
many cultures—beyond that,
I have no explanation to give.

©JEF