Mother's Day is hard for some of us. This one is particularly difficult for some reason. It will be thirty years ago this October that my mother finally lost her fight with a virulent form of breast cancer. My youngest daughter will turn thirty a few short days after that anniversary. Memories are rising like the tide in the Gulf, stained black and blue. Too many dreams died. Too many wings will never beat free. The familiar loss washes over the heart, tinted with oil sheen and enraged voices. It's grief for the Earth and one of her many children left battered and bruised. I'm grieving again for my mothers.
My mom was a beautiful woman. High cheekbones and bluegray eyes. Elegant and vain. Loved by friends and neighbors, she could be the life of a party. She loved tennis and played it until the cancer took even that away from her. I was her daughter, her oldest child of five. And I grew up knowing I had to protect her, even if she couldn't protect any of her children.
It's the old story of violence. Of a child waking in the middle of the night to hearing her mother's voice saying "Stop or I'll call for help." His voice saying "You do and I'll break your damn arm." The sounds of silent struggling easing through the bedroom walls. Tears flowing down my nine year old face, desperate for courage, I got down from my bunk bed, praying my younger sister would keep on sleeping. The bathroom was at the end of the hallway. I made it and closed the door behind me, trying desperately not to sob. Flushed the toilet and ran water so they'd KNOW one of the children was up. So he'd stop hurting her. And he did. For that moment. For that night.
And so it began again. My first memories are of a baby crying, a woman screaming, and blood. My mother and father. My grandfather and uncle finally rescued us one day and took us home to my grandmother. Our sanctuary for two years. Until my mother re-married and it started all over again in our suburban gulag. He was the warden of our prison. Nothing was free of fear. Nothing was free of shame.
But I could make him smile or laugh sometimes. Sometimes, oh dear lord, sometimes, that would keep us safe. And my mother relied on that. Needed that. And I wonder to this day why my mother never seemed to like me. Why I always wanted to apologize to her for my very existence. I wonder why I always felt like her parent when she never could parent me.
The natural world is where I always turned for comfort and a place to belong. To this day I still talk to the trees and the moon. Every morning I give thanks for this beautiful blued world. And everyday I know it's hurting. Every day I know my mother, our mother is in pain. So on this Mother's Day I'm grieving again for what could have been, should have been. I'm grieving for both my mothers' raped spirits. I'm grieving for the children of their battered beauty and grace.
On this Mother's Day, if you are in an abusive relationship, please, please, get out. If you have children, they know. If you have children, no matter what the hardships will be in leaving, they are dealable. A new life is possible. A better life is what you all deserve. Please, do not stay. For your sake. For your children's sake. So they do not end up decades later needing to write something like this.
This is for you.
This is for those of us who grew up motherless due to violence and silence.
Blessings, comfort and courage to you all.