dear Mother

dear Mother. the womb that delivered me. the breast that fed me. the love that fuelled me. i’m sorry. am i only saying this because i am forced? programmed? to acknowledge all the things you are, why don’t i feel it? does that mean i’m ungrateful? what is loving you meant to look like? i’ve always known love as saving an enemy from burning. pointing in the direction of paradise. you know, you do remind me of magnolia gardens and luscious jars of rose cream. the warrior and the worrier. you embraced your softness through the clinking and clanking in the kitchen, through the guilt in your tears and the despair in your voice. i love the creativity i inherited from you but why do i stumble on wintery nights half full of warmth? or are they full? why do i bang my foot on soft iron when i come across that title ‘mother’. i hold my breath quickly looking away from its presence? i do. i do appreciate how sacred your role is, mine too, but is that the purpose? to mother? isn’t that what all mammals are wired to do? i am grateful to the generosity of your genius vagina that delivered me into life like the grapes in gorgeous gardens. like the caring of canaries. the patience of the Mona-Lisa. but why? why do i fear the struggle of the nature i was formed into? don’t you think we’ve made it too complicated for ourselves? magnolias & roses letting out scents of fear? you love lemons and limes and yellow birds. see. i’m so great at writing facts, but what part of the fabric is missing? maybe there’s no fabric missing. it’s whole. maybe people poked so many holes into something that is ultimately beautiful. dear mother. i know i love you. because i volunteered, and chose you. and for that i’m grateful. i know, when one of us wins the race to the grave, we’ll pray for each other. that is our Creators greatest gift.