Mothering.

A poem for Mother's Day

To the mothers who were our first homes.

it wasn't just
your hands
that raised me.
it was 
your silence.
your staying.

you were
bone.
wild root.
floral-hearted.
rough-soled.

and you loved
in a way
you had to first
learn to offer
yourself.

you carried
your mother’s silence,
and I carry
the sound
of your trying 

sometimes the most 
honest mothering
we do
is admit that
we’re still 
learning how-
 
still figuring out 
how to 
loosen the knot
that cannot be pulled
one end 
without
tightening the other.

Generational healing doesn’t happen in one lifetime; we are not here to complete the journey alone, but we can become a vital wingbeat in that long, invisible migration home—each of us carrying a piece of the return, lightened by forgiveness, guided by love, sincere in our trying.

mothers and daughters, mothering each other. (tamara & sez, siska & sez)

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