A Rose for My Mother, Part III

I don’t know what to say to you, Mother,

to amend your sadness and sorrow.

Apologies and gratitude, Mother,

seems so useless and meaningless now.

The other day you told me the story about my sister –

who had struggled to survive Autism on her own and

failing at that, is now just passing through her life in a breeze

of nothingness and shallow graves.

You said when she was still a young infant child,

she never slept; so you had to hold her up in your arm and

sitting up all night, worrying that

maybe the ghost of the war will take your child away,

or the ghost of the dawn will take you away.

You said it was a miracle that you hadn’t gone insane then and I thought to myself,

Mother, after all these years, it is a miracle

that you hadn’t, even once, fallen down the spiral of depression and

the curse of mental illness.

I collapse on the floor, tears falling down one side of my face,

and the first thing I see

is always you, there with me.

Wake up, honey, wake up, honey.

I muster the strength.

I gather the courage.

I unbutton the bravery and

I bring down the savage.

But Mother, dearest Mother,

the apologies are getting boring and

the gratitude can’t even getting nearer to what you had done –

what you had sacrifice to keep your two children alive – and now

at the age of forty-five,

you don’t need no apologies nor gratitude.

You only need to be free.

And Mother, you don’t know how much I yearn to have the power to grant you that wish.

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