My mother’ grip weaker but tighter too
A desperate plea to me and to mortality
The love abounding but unstable
The conditions placed upon herself weigh badly.
“Was I a good mother?” the plaintive quest to understand
The fear of an Unforgiven.
Yet what her memories paint and what of them remain
I cannot judge
But what I can induce is blame
That reassurances will never penetrate.
A child robbed of youth;
Or the joy therein,
Robbed of a father through the maraudings of a mean mother
And when his death arrived
Though grown
She was left alone against the politics of the justifiably estranged
Strained through years of conflict and contradiction.
So what then of my future in this mess?
A hand that will grip tight long after death
Is made of love and not the need for love
To reciprocate is joy
But to give without expectation is strength
And to never look for reassurances is brave –
Especially at the end.
© TheHairyTeacher 2017
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