Mother Love

This is a tribute to my Mother.

My Mother, who has always been there, for my Father, for my Sister. For me.

As I edge towards the end of my fifth decade of life, I find myself thinking about all that she must have done and seen, all that she must have lived through that I will never know about. What was it like for her before me? And what was it like having to give birth to a deformed child? And yet she nursed me. She raised me. She taught me to be a good boy. She loved my face.

She was there the day I discovered my Father could cry. My Sister poked gentle fun at her for falling asleep watching television. And she’d listen patiently as I babbled everything I thought my teenaged self needed to say. Of course, I’d figure it out eventually, whatever it was. It was just nice to know that someone cared.

My Mother.

She welcomed my soon to be Wife with open arms. She grieved on the day I married and left the nest. We continued to hold hands over the telephone. Her heart never abandoned me, my Mother, who was kindness personified. Who I strive to emulate.

And now I see that time has caught up with her. Now she’s a ghost of her former self, no longer the woman I grew up with, looked up to. Kindness personified has become a slow and drawn out forgetting. She is reduced to haunting the shadowed halls of her oldest memories. I hope at least it’s beautiful there.

Is it supposed to be like this? Is it not enough that we die? Must we also be stripped of everything we are and hold dear? Must we be taken away before we’re truly taken away? Yet we live like there will be a tomorrow, hopeful in the face of certain oblivion.

For my birthday this year I want the impossible gift. I want her disease to be lifted, thrown away. I want my Mother to live well into her nineties, happy and full of years. I’m not ready to let go.

I wish you could have met my Mother, back when her spark was compassionate and bright. But she is fading now, and most likely won’t remember you. My Mother, who loved my face. Who stooped low for me. Who fed me watermelon.

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020

187 thoughts on “Mother Love”

  6. Between the two you were quiet and cold methodical to some but you were the glue that held the pieces in the puzzles together and when you left I went right and the chasms has not bridged the divide of your passing and the fracture of our family life. What am I to do on Sundays if you are not here? The only thing that kept us a unit now she is gone to pasture and she has abandoned me as I am the sensitive type and don’t really do anything by the book unless my Yalla my mom by my side just gives me the look and I know that I will behave because last thing that I would do is disappoint my Yalla the glue ran dry and I am still adrift the fruits 🍎 do not stray too far from the roots and the tree.

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  7. This is so beautifully written. It reminded me of my own mother who died at the age of 52. I remember feeling the same ‘Do we have to be stripped of everything?’ Before we actually die. Thank you for sharing this.

    Liked by 4 people

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    • Thank you so much for reading. As for the way in which I see my Mother, I think my vision/lens/prism/whatever one wants to call it is limited, but I am grateful that it spoke to you anyway! 🙏

      Liked by 2 people

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