Mother's Day
Dearest,
Closest to my heart,
I should not be writing to you right now.
It’s a busy world we live in and I have work to do.
That’s too bad.
I want to write to you now, to talk; as I often do.
You’re on my mind today, as you have the custom to be.
You’ve been my cushion,
my comfort, my pillow,
A place to bury my head when
You’re the only one in the world I’d think of
turning to.
I hope I’ve been your pride and joy. Yes, pride. And joy.
It’s the least I can give you.
The least I can give you after all these years
These thankless years
Please say I’ve made you proud.
It’d put a smile on my heart. I’ve hurt you, made you mad, made you cry
I want you to cry now
Tears of joy
For me, for us, for our family, for your brother, your sister, your daughters and
sons,
For me,
I’m lost
Nothing without You;
Nothing without the force which sprung life into me.
Why does each year zoom by faster than the one before it?
Each one leaving us with less and less dear time together on this mortal earth.
Why did I grow up?
I don’t know—perhaps I haven’t, deep down.
But I’m sorry.
I didn’t want to grow up.
I want to be your little Brookie, the little girl whose big head came rushing to you,
You, the nurturing mother whose protection acted as a pillow for that funny head
That head that hurt you so.
I hurt you so.
But no more. I’m sorry.
The pillow I once ran must no longer be dampened by tears of childhood.
It was once the pillow’s job to do the comforting
But it is the pillow’s turn to be cared for.
It’s the natural order of things.
Baby’s grow up and don’t need their mommies anymore.
I still do. What I need is no more mommy to care for me;
I really need a mommy for whom I can care.
Copyright © Brooke Wolfe | Year Posted 2007
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