Missing Mother Days

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I left Mother twice.

 

 

First, I left her cloistered womb. I didn’t want to go, but it was my birthday; and she insisted. I never would have left if she hadn’t pushed me out the door. It ended in tears for both of us.

 

 

Mother took me to a house with empty spaces. We lived alone and together. One by one the years came, filling all the rooms, crowding me until I had to leave. I opened the door by myself and left without a tear.

 

 

I kissed Mother once, the day she left her house. She locked the door and left without her gloves, though her hands were cold. I cried that day; she didn’t say a word.

 

 

I wore Mother’s gloves to fill the empty spaces. They helped me face the cold, and finally grasp what she did.

 

 

I missed Mother the day I lost her glove on my way home. The right one disappeared; I only have the left.

 

 

I missed Mother more that day than all the days before.

 

 

 

33 thoughts on “Missing Mother Days

  1. sometimes, in the anguish of separation… one has to push away… or the other has to kick. It’s a very thin line that’s torn between us… and a lot remains of mother in the child that has broken loose. I love your poetry.

  2. Mother’s day is a tough one for me. You started me with tears. But, when my kids asked why I wasn’t answering the phone today, I was better able to explain.

    • Natalie,
      I hope your Mother’s destination was a good fit for her. Sometimes this world is a hair shirt worn over tar and feathers. So painful for some, even if we can’t see what’s causing it.
      Perhaps where she is now, she can keep a loving eye on what you are up to, and occasionally drop a hint on a good or bad direction, if you are able to hear her.

      I’m right here, but mine don’t want to listen, though I’ve already traveled many of the paths they are going down, and might be able to save them some heavy back-tracking.

      • I like your image of the hair shirt. I think for some people, life is that way.

        About your children not listening: I was like that; I had to find out the hard way. At some point though, I did start listening. Your children are blessed to have someone who is willing to let them make those mistakes and still loves them.

  3. I can’t say anything, except …

    *deep sigh*

    how can something so beautiful hurt so much?

    (and yet I can’t stop reading it, over and over again)

    I don’t know how you manage to go there, but when you do, you’re all in.

    utterly and completely. beautifully. generously sharing what you’ve learned. you peel back all the layers and let us bear witness, and even then, you dig even deeper and ask us to keep our eyes open, and see. you make me stronger than I am. thank you.

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