This is for the mothers

[indeliblesasha]

Sometimes you have to stand shivering in the shower under the water long run cold, and write. Sometimes you have to type on a screen slippery with condensation while your teeth chatter, naked under the freezing spray because if you stop to get a towel the words are going to dissipate before you can trap them on the page. Sometimes you rinse the conditioner from your hair and wash the salt from your cheeks and sit on the toilet wrapped in a towel while you tap out the last fleeting words you were able to grasp because the room became too cold to bear so you had to move before you were done.

Sometimes the words come, and you follow.

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This is for the mothers
By S.R. Davis


This is for the mothers.
This is for the mothers who made lunches this morning.
Or dinner tonight.
Breakfast yesterday.
This is for the mothers who filled their child's lunch account and hurried out the door.

This is for the mothers.
This is for the mothers who did laundry today.
And the ones who didn't.
This is for the mothers walking down the sidewalks and driving up the road.
In grocery stores and on sandy shores.

This is for the mothers.
This is for the mothers who don't remember if they've eaten today.
This is for the mothers who took their meds and the ones who can't remember, because it's been That Kind Of Day.
This is for the mothers who managed to feed the children today and nothing more.
This is for the mothers who could not.
Or went hungry so they could.
This is for the mothers with dead babies.
This is for the mothers of sick children.

This is for the mothers.
This is for the mothers sitting on the porch with a glass of white wine clutched in their hands, who laugh weakly and say, well at least I kept the kids alive today.
This is for those of us who are sitting the same but weeping, because we could not manage even that.

This is for the mothers.

Some days we are given so much.
So much love.
So many hugs they start to hurt.
So many sticky kisses.
So many tissues.
So many baskets of laundry and messy dishes and so, so much glitter on the carpet.

We are given so little, sometimes.
So few tantrums, unlike last week.
So little argument, just tonight, at bedtime.
So little accolades, so little thanks, so little time.
So little sleep.

Let me give you this.

Let me give you your name.

Look into a mirror.
Are you alone?
Now look into a mirror and say, I am...
And say your name.

Look yourself in the eye and say, I am...
And say your name.

Say your name, to yourself.
Say your name, in the silence.
Say your name.

Say your name until you're crying, or laughing, or until it doesn't even sound like a word anymore.
Say your name until you're sobbing on the floor because you've forgotten what it sounds like.

This is for the mothers.
This is for the mothers who learned how to do things the right way by doing it all wrong before.
This is for the mothers who made every mistake with the very best of intentions.
This is for the mothers who struggle, and suffer, and fail.
This is for the mothers who succeed.
Who have it all.
Who are joyous and content and calm...
And still feel like they're forgetting something.

This is for the mothers.
The mothers of foster children.
Adopted children.
Step-children.
Biological children.
Adult children.
Missing children.
Dead children.

This is for the mothers.

Let me give you this.

Let me give you your name.

Look into the mirror and say, my name is...

And say it.

Say. Your. Name.

This is for the mothers
Who sometimes forget who we are.

Comments

[out_there]

Wow. That is really touching. Well done.

[kass]

Oh this is so beautiful.