30 Years of Blooms

I guess it’s time to stop asking questions, and start answering them. Wipe away long dead evaporations; mined trails overgrown with new, more current vines. Time to remove the silver duct-tape from the face of killed memory; (the girl in the cavern who sits, wide eyed and bound at her skeletal ankles and wrists at the top of the wicked peak, looking for a way out – her green eyes wild and rolling like thunder and mustangs at the edge of the drop , looking for a way out of this buried-alive, hell) and replace it with white words whispered into my own children’s ears. I cannot judge you. Just as I cannot judge her. We are all together in this moment. And although I’d love to be the high and mighty mother who says, “OH! I would never do that to MY kids – never!” I won’t. I won’t give him the pleasure. The one who turned you to glass; beat you until you were nothing but sunlight in your own mother’s memory. She loved me as I love mine (including the young one who waits for her savior with the shining scissors; coming through the dark like rebirth and deliverance; like a cool cloth on a charred brow). So I will plant my Mother’s Day lilac tree in her honor – burying the questions, honoring the love we shared and still share. We will leave our judgments at the door and sit beneath its amethyst blooms (my birthstone; your given gift of insight) exalting in the sacred heart of motherhood; laughing until we cry; feeding its deep roots with memory. © Kristin Reynolds 5 9 09 *Dedicated to my Mother this Mother's Day (I hope you are listening...)