What I Wanted
from Mildred (1905-1991)
I wanted to say yes to the invitation to
your wedding, my dear grand-niece,
but my sisters said no, I might have a spell
and spoil your special day. Instead, I embroidered
pillowcases with purple pansies, your favorites.
You cried when I gave them to you, wrapped
in silver paper I saved from Christmas.
I’d wanted to say yes to the boy who asked
me to marry him. We met on campus, both of us
learning to be teachers. But my father said no,
he was Catholic, we were Episcopalian. I defied
his decision, kept seeing my beau—until I began to see
people who weren’t there, to lose my thoughts,
my temper, and finally my freedom.
I said no to the state hospital, the straightjackets
and ice baths, the shocks they called therapy,
the surgery that kept me from ever having
children. My father, at his own wit’s end,
said yes to it all, hoping the doctors were right,
wanting to believe it was for my own good.
My life smoothed out over time, though
not in the way I’d dreamed, the youngest
resident of an old folks’ home, restrained by pills,
trapped in boredom and the odor of soiled sheets.
I held on to the mind I had left, writing long letters
in perfect script, embroidering gifts to give away.
I passed the chocolates my sisters brought.
The more I shared, the less my despair.
Many years later, I ached to say yes to
the house you showed me, where a few
older women lived with staff to help them.
When my sisters said no, you argued my case,
but I knew there was no hope of winning.
I still smell the biscuits the women were baking
and lilacs beyond an open window.