I awake with upturned palms aching and empty. Swollen eyes. Hollow belly. You’re gone again, faded into the washed out morning light. The curve of your breasts, flick of butterfly fingers straightening flyaway hair: all gone. Tears glisten feebly on gasping open hands. Dew crying its last breath in raging summer sun. Silence echoes, grey sky breaks, and still I wait unmoving. Semi-conscious, I hear your voice, falling like gentle summer rain. Memory slithers through the cobwebbed corridors of my mind soundlessly, inching after the barest scent of your being. I awake with upturned palms aching and empty. Swollen eyes. Hollow belly. You’re gone again, gone for good. Sunlight burns my bones and screams indecent declarations of life at my bruised and battered soul.

I mourn you as I mourn the mother I never had. Both unattainable. Both ensnared behind a barrier not of my making. No matter what I change, what I do, who I am, this child will have no mother. This child is not a child. Her cries echo in the loneliness of the night and are comforted by the blank stares of a faceless moon.

“I am not your mother”

The words tumble like rancid cockroaches and break into a hundred unnamed pieces. I have been broken for the last time. All the Kings horses and all the Kings men can’t put me back together again. It’s over now. Too old, too old to be a child, a daughter; too old to be loved. Palms remain cracked and empty forever now.

I just can’t believe it couldn’t be you. Even though I always knew it to be the truth. I gave you my heart in a basket, hoping yet knowing. Sure enough, you stuck a Band-Aid on it and gave it right back and said,

“I am not your mother”

copyright memoryofmoving 2007

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