“I will be 60 years old in 14 days, and I have no grandchildren,” she sighed—
Not as a reproach,
But as a fact,
Pregnant with disappointment.
I shot her hurt down
With a classic “Me” remark—
“Good. Who wants to bring children into this sad world, to have difficult lives?”
I shook my head, knowing damn well
that I do,
‘Tis I.
‘Tis I who has a password-protected note on my phone with a list of curated names.
‘Tis I who made a puddle of tears on the floor at church when I saw a little girl who looked like what my mind had crafted as my first (always a girl).
I’m sorry, Mom,
For yet again falling short of the bar,
For being unable to entice,
For building a fortress of fear around my heart
when I realized that all those infantile loves wouldn’t pan out,
when I realized that my true loves could only bleed me dry.
I’m sorry, Mom,
For turning out so selfish,
So rough around the edges,
So hard to love
That I’ve become a shadow in a dark corner no one procures.
I’m sorry, Mom,
That those prayers I uttered in the silence of the night,
Those letters I wrote for him who’d win my heart,
Were a waste of time.
I’m sorry, Mom,
For driving him away
With my loudness,
My temper,
My body,
My ways.
I’m sorry, Mom,
That I deprived you of the joy
Of your old age,
By my stubborn obsession
With being myself.
I’m sorry, Mom,
For not being “Mom.”
