Mothering, Gratitude and Grief
Memories, mine and others':
Sometimes you were there and listened,
and then you weren't and I disappeared.
A dropped cup of milk, shattered you, then me.
Why did you take my new pair of jeans without asking?
Did you think they looked better on you?
Celebrating signs of spring.
A drawer full of new bras that I didn't ask for.
The smell of spaghetti with home made meat sauce.
Look at the birds.
No more questions.
Standing so small between you and dad's rage.
Talking about the weather, not my broken heart, not yours.
Why do I have no memory of being held?
Leaning so hard on your daughters' that their shoulders slump.
Tired, aching, restless, shadowy motherlove.
I tried to make my own nest, but the eggs kept breaking.
You couldn't do it alone,
and neither can I.
Supported by the earth, held by the trees, seen and heard by the creatures, crying with the rain, and carressed by the sun and wind,
I can feel grateful for what you and I could give, against the odds,
and grieve what we cannot.
Thank you to Elaine Mansfield for the beautiful photo.