Barbé Maria Tirtov-Romanov Hammer, 1920-1999

Sonnet for the one

We did not hug or kiss much. We loved most when we shopped.
When I was fat, she bore witness in the dressing rooms at Saks;
I sobbed and screamed at shorts that would not squeeze on. I mopped
Up the tears. She sat and smiled like the Buddha, accepting. Back
At Schraffts I vowed to diet after a hot fudge sundae. “My last
One,” I declared. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.” Then I got thin at camp.
She nodded, agreed it was probably smart, but she herself resisted
social svelteness, lounged luxuriant in folds of flesh at Bonwits, as I vamped
formal wear and blue jeans, coats, shoes, at Bloomies and I forget where else.
Oh yes, the GAP -- when my father died. She sent me there for a purple dress.
“Black is boring,” she said. “So expected.” Until her last year she pressed
Me to buy “a decent outfit” with her hard earned cash. The final gift felt
Extravagant: A pair of moss green shoes from France. She was generous –
I had forgotten that. Remember now the sizing of the love we shared. Enormous.