The one who thinks like a pastor, fondly listening inside to her heart which is lonely.
The one who touches like a nurse, open to the clues, simple hints about pain.
The one who creates food to share, serving the body and soul.
Daughter became caregiver to Mother.
And altered who I am.
Only, she isn’t frail, broken down or helpless — not just yet but it’s coming. Even so she asks and I answer, and I tag along. In case something is missed, she says.
Even so she still bails me out and listens as my heart bursts open, pooling over the edges of my day. The “middle school” years, I am tender, raw with anguish.
Oh yes, she is still Mother, but today something in the cosmos shifted, and I became a Giver.
I became her One.
- In the Space of Days I Grew Up
- What Kind of a Mother Is She?
- Going Quietly Sane (A Collection of my poetry, more than 100+)