I sat on a rock surrounded by nature’s trees and spring. A grief I know too well returned. Sunday is Mother’s Day. For all mothers I bow both my neck and waist and honor your day, though I think one is not enough. You give so much, and perhaps never realize the depth of your pouring.
A fifty eight, I know Sunday will never be for me. And so, for those, like me, who know the ache that pierces even the marrow of your bones, who live in labor every day for what has not been gifted…. I bow as well both my neck and back in honor of you, and to gather your tears and hear your unspoken pain.
I do not know why I write this, except to honor both. You both are my other me.