Retrieve Lament: from me, the mother

Pietà, Anto Carte - source

 

I can't imagine being your mother

-- or maybe I can.

The day she cradled your dead body, 

how much of her suffering was about you? 

How much was about her?

 

I've given life to four people

All still alive (thanks be to God),

but I grieve anyway.

 

For a mother, grief

comes easy. 

As does the following:

Anguish

Fury

Irritation

Contempt

Remorse

Humiliation

 

Also:

Liability

 

Occasionally:

Love

 

Sometimes love feels fierce as hate-

mingling down in howling tears. 

It's hard to tell the difference

Am I crying for my kid?

Am I crying for myself?

 

Which makes me wonder

What your mother felt the day she cradled 

your dead body?

 

One time (or maybe a million)

I cried all night because I couldn't

remember if I'd ever done anything right

for my kid. I thought 

the homemade play-dough was a good idea, and 

the library trips.  Maybe that wasn't

enough?

 

One time (just the other day)

I cried all night

because I was so damn mad

at my kid. The one I love more

than life itself. The one

-- given enough Pinot --

I could just as easily slap

upside the head.

 

Four times I writhed and moaned

and screamed and hollered

and bled and cussed

until - hallelujah -

it was finished.

 

Four times I cooed and cried

and prophesied, shouting

over the tiny 

screaming face:

This is my kid -

do whatever he tells you to do.

 

Four seconds of transcendance - 

even while my body turned inside

out, split in two, stretched 

beyond recognition.

 

Four perfect seconds of euphoria - 

after that, things begin to fall apart.

 

Did your mother think, I would 

die for you? 

 

Did she think, 

You wear me out. Or, 

this is all your father's fault.

 

I only ask because I've thought all 

those things.  If it's ok

for the mother of God,

maybe I'm not so bad.

 

Maybe there's hope for us yet.