If My Mother Were a Tree
Aren’t mothers a strange thing? We all have them.
Aren’t mothers a strange thing? We all have them. Fundamental, foundational and necessary for life. Our cells and blood mingle as we evolve over months and then years into the creation we are; connected to this woman at the instant we, ourselves, come into being. We are profoundly, forever bound. Would we feel the same connection to a tree if we merely developed as seeds, flowers then fruit on the end of a limb?
Those of us who become mothers are linked back to the very beginning of time through the threads woven of our mothers, to their mothers, to the beyond. So when the physical connection is broken, no matter the quality of mothering in this microscopically short physical journey, there is a rupture in the universe; a tear in the very fabric of space/time, never to be repaired.
Abandoned, there are these moments every so often where time is suspended and I move to pick up the phone, impelled to recount a moment of joy only my mother can share in and appreciate. The one, singular person who might experience that joy in the same, cellular, ancestral-touching way I do.
How I miss my mother! For all the complexity and weight of our relationship, I long and ache to hear her voice or feel her touch. The one woman who could skillfully lie to me; tell me I could do anything and it would all be alright.
Eight years ago this morning, her soul winged its flight. Tragedy and beauty in one moment.
Maybe my indulgence in this sadness are the seeds of love planted for my own children. Could they possibly feel this way about me, flawed and inept as I am?
I miss her so.
