I had a massage appointment a couple days after Mother's Day. My massage therapist does not have children. Since she is 40, single, and doesn't have time in her schedule for a parakeet, much less a marriage, she is unlikely to have any. So I didn't talk about Mother's Day with her until it kind of came up in conversation toward the end of the massage. I asked if she did anything with her mom on Sunday. She told me about her broken relationship with her mother and that she hated Mother's Day. I understood. My mother's mental illness warped our relationship. There is no schizophrenia selection in the Mother's Day card rack. I was the girl with no mom at the Mother's Day tea at school or church. So I wrote this poem for her, for me, for those for whom Mother's Day is bittersweet.
The Hole in Mother's Day
By the time I was old enough to know
what Mother's Day was about,
there was already a hole in it--
a Mom shaped hole called schizophrenia.
Year by year the hole got bigger
as more and more of the person I knew,
the mother I wished she could be,
was drawn into that vortex of chaos.
Mother's Day became a grim reminder
of what our family could not have.
I bought her cards with holes in them
where flowery sentiments tend to be.
When I married and moved away
the hole came with me,
but now it was not so large,
so sad, so everyday.
There was still a hole in Mother's Day
but it became less painful
when I had children of my own
and became the mom I had wished for.
When my mother died
and there were no more dreaded visits,
pointless cards, and useless gifts,
the hole was nearly healed.
And then I lost my son.
I still have two remaining children
with children of their own,
who fill my life in wonderful ways,
Though the hole is back in Mother's Day.
I will not let it drain away
the beauty of the life I have
the love they give throughout the year.
There is a hole in Mother's Day
shaped just like you, my son
but this time I'll embrace the pain
until you fill the hole again.
5/18/24
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