Her mother's daughter
Sometimes, words fail my worry.
They say that anxiety doesn't really accomplish much,
But what can I do when I'm here and she's there,
And she's hurting, and I can't hold her?
I never got to meet her mother.
I deeply wish I had, wish I'd had the chance to earn her blessing.
But I didn't, because a little-known "Syndrome"
Claimed her life before she'd lived a half-century.
I only met her on paper, as a name and number on certificates,
As a picture beneath the brittle cellophane cracklings of childhood albums.
Never as a living breathing laughing woman . . .
Other than, perhaps, as embodied in her daughter.
The daughter who, when she misses her mother,
Buries her face in my neck and her pain in my breast,
Leaving me to feel at once overwhelmed by love
And possessed of some superstrength that can steady her.
I feel powerful, because I really can make it a little bit better.
The daughter who laughs with me, encourages me,
Believes in me, makes love to me,
Tells me I'm beautiful as she presses her moisture
Against my seeking tongue,
And rises spiraling on the updraft of my ecstasy.
The daughter who says "I'm sure you can"
Even when I'm less certain,
And who is then proven right, and empowers me again.
But now, she telephones, out of town.
She's going to the doctor tomorrow.
She can't eat tonight.
She can't drink.
She can't lie down, and she can't sit up.
She's going to the doctor tomorrow.
Her mother's doctor.
The mother I never met, because she died too soon.
Her mother's daughter.
I would give her anything in my power,
If there were the tiniest little thing that would help--
And yet, there is nothing in my power.
I am powerless, tonight.
I asked before, in a different spirit,
And tonight I ask again:
Michelle, my love, my light, my lifetime,
Can I keep you?
Early Spring, 2000
Return to the Library.
Return to the Front Door.
E-mail me at Weavre@graffiti.net