My mother passed away on April 6, 2008, eleven days before my 40th birthday. The following month I wrote this poem still trying to grab onto the reality that she was gone. She was 83 years old. A part of me was a bit angry that my sister’s got more time with her. They are 15 and 24 years older than me. It is illogical but the truth. They were able to have her around much longer than 40 years. The lessons she taught me have been coming even after her passing. There are so many times when being a mother to my own children I must reach into my memory bank and wonder, “What would Mom do?”
This Mother’s Day I dedicate this poem to all those who have lost their beloved mothers. It is always a void no matter how easy or difficult the relationships might have been. Happy Mother’s Day. Cherish the moments spent with her while she’s here. Life is precious.
I could have never realized
the space between days,
as I will never hear your voice again.
There was no warning,
to understanding the loss of a mother.
I am missing you.
The things taken for granted
are clearly visible
now in your absence.
I am empty without your questions
while trying to break away
from the rhythm of change,
from the signs of seasons.
It still seems like a background dream,
incoherent at times,
with a loss of reality
that advises me that you
are no longer here to hold my hand.
I am trying to remember the colors
of your world,
the noises of your words,
the smell of your significance.
I am struggling to leave it alone
I can still hold a one-sided conversation.
Life springs eternally
with faith and grace
and I know you are somewhere else.
Do you now have a view into eternity?
Are you in some light that warms you
even when you didn’t believe?
Death begins with life
and the knowing that death
is only a breath away.
I feel insufficient,
drained of resources on what to say,
while you were always an ear away.
I didn’t think,
or perceived this would be so daunting.
I can accept the passing
but it’s the things that weren’t clarified,
or lived, or mentioned and avoided
that have become thorns under my skin
pricking ever so carefully
during sleep, while driving,
and in my walks.
I will forever hold your hands,
those that mimic mine,
while I fall asleep
waiting for your visit in my dreams.
5/13/08 MA Mestril