A letter to my mother
You wear a crown of thorns. I whisper secrets in your ear and trust the pinky swear. You’re always near. You are more friend than mother but it wasn’t always this way.
Once you reach a certain age the sands of time have smoothed you. Formed you. Buffed out the need for thrills and youthful transgressions, for nonsense and worrying over meaningless affections. You look back and notice situations, people, events with a new lens. I see you now mom. I yearn to turn back time and praise you the way I should. Love you the way I should. Honor you the way I should. All I can do now is say I’m sorry and love you now. Lift you up any way I can. Love you worn and weathered, weary and toughened. I wish you didn’t need to toughen your skin the way you have, to sharpen your sarcasm to burden the pain. To shoulder the weight of his lies, his instability, his illness. You hid the empty bottles of pills and liquor, the manic episodes, the depressive ones which followed soon behind. You hid it all from eager mouths.
I took dads side when I was young because I needed him to love me. I rebelled and sought attention in unsavory places because I needed his attention. The youngest of four, with the oldest having a dad before his fall into dark places, I thought he never was satisfied, never showed up at my sports games or events because I wasn’t good enough. There was something wrong with me and if I could just do better, be louder, he would notice and wake up from his stupor. I thought I could lift him from his depression and finally give him happiness. I let you down and I wish I would have lifted you up as you carried the weight of all of us and him – a mother and father. You hid his instability from our tight knit community so we wouldn’t be embarrassed or ashamed.
Who was your anchor? Who kept you going? Why didn’t you leave? I know now that you loved us more than you loved yourself and you trusted in the Lord.
You shared a story recently about going to church with your family back home, kneeling at the altar for communion and hoping your dress covered the holes in the heels of your shoes. You spent what little money you could acquire from working on us. Now you feel comfortable sharing these sacrifices as I am a mother now and understand the love you share with your child.
I love you mom. I am here for you and will always be to shoulder your burden. I wish I could have helped back then but I didn’t and can’t turn back time. I see you now. Recently I saw a picture of you as a young 20-something. Tall, thin and beautiful in a red dress in a sea of neutrals. That’s how I see you and will always see you. Let me carry you now.
The writer of this is a beautiful woman with a heart of understanding for her mother. She wishes to remain anonymous, but willingly shared this story as a tribute to her mother.
