Loving My Mother

by Vernie Lynn DeMille

 

Loving my mother with a mother’s heart

I see more clearly

The worries and balancing

That kept her ever walking

The webbed tightrope strung 

Between herself, my father,

My siblings, and I.

 

Loving my mother with tired hands

I feel more keenly the exhaustion from

Cleaning and cooking,

Comforting and teaching a hundred lessons

Before twilight tangles up the sunlight

With the shadows in the fields

And beneath my eyes.

 

Loving my mother with a heart

Bleeding from the pricking of guilt

For all I cannot get right, afford, remember, or accomplish,

I feel an increase of compassion

For the weight of needs, wants and wishes

On her soul already traumatized, tired, weak, but determined,

That chose to love beyond the bounds of blood.   

 

I bury my face in an apron

With no owner left to tuck trinkets

And tissues into the corners.

Loving my mother hurts

When I cannot find her presence 

In the spaces her love built in my life,

But I can still smell her fragrance 

That lingers on old, faded cotton.

 

 

Loving my mother as I approach 

Becoming a grandmother myself,

When even the best of what I could do feels paltry

In the face of what grows beyond my reach,

I feel the desire for more forgiveness

And abundant grace to cover

The mountain of my mistakes.

 

And I love my mother more

Than I ever could as a child who needed 

And was told “no,”

As a young woman who yearned

And was told “wait,”

Or a middle-aged mother who pleaded

And was counseled “endure.”

 

I feel her here often,

Just beyond the edge of seeing,

And I hear her laughter at little things. 

I remember love more than hurt,

Though there is always both in growth,

And I give it all room to be

In this heart that will always love my mother.

August 17, 2021