Wednesday, July 27, 2011
To my mom
As a child, you were magical. You could make a scrap feel better with a kiss. You could tell what was going on behind your head. The house was clean in a twitch of a nose, and I never ran out of blankets to keep me warm.
As a teenager, I hated you. I was in love and you did not understand. I needed more independence and privacy. I felt like you were smothering me. My world was different then yours.
As an adult, you left. I don’t understand. You packed up your things and left town. You split from everyone like a rebellious teen. Do you hate me? I don’t understand. I wonder if it were not for HIM would you still be here. I watch my peers mourn the death of their parents, and I feel disconnected. Do you think you can just call every once in awhile and it makes it ok? Promises of visiting have been met with nothing. Would I even recognize you if I saw you? Even as an adult, four years is a long time. Even when I was sick, you did not come. I could not walk. I could not talk. It was not you that took care of me. It was my mother-in-law. She had to bathe me; she had to help me to the bathroom. She held me close, and when I could talk she listened to my struggles. As grateful as I was, I could not stop thinking about you. You should have been there. How dare you choose to be THERE and not here. Wherever there was? Was it Indiana or Kentucky? Do you even remember? I sat in a hospital room looking at the cornfields of Illinois.
What about all the problems with my son? They don’t know what is going on with him. His behavior is unique, hard to control and impossible to predict. I cannot be magical. He does not believe in it. His world is dark, and everything makes him angry. I wish I could help. I don’t know how. Things are hard, and where are you! It is not as you don’t know what is going on. You call. I tell, and still you don’t show.
A phone call is not enough. A phone call does not make you a mom, a grandmother or a better person.
I was raised not to hate. I was raised to say please, thank you, and excuse me. A parent’s job is never done.
Excuse me, will you please come home? I promise to thank you.