I feel your pain. . .
the heaviness in your heart as Sunday approaches.
I weep with you,
for your brokenness,
your longing, for the call that will not come.
I weep for your emptiness.
We are good mothers,
Yes. We. Are.
Though our children are gone. We are still good mothers.
We gave . . . too much at times.
We loved . . . too deeply at times, and society doesn’t allow us to express our pain on Mother’s Day.
Our pain is real.
Tell me, Dear One. Tell me of your brokenness.
Fall upon me.
I promise you, you will not shock me with your words. Let me catch you as you crumble.
Let us fall upon each other in a pile of pain, because somehow, someway we must heal each other.
I see you weeping, alone in the closet, in the shower, in the garden.
I see it because I cry with you.
We are broken.
We are irreparably broken.
The children we love are gone.
Some taken suddenly by death.
Some taken slowly by disease.
Some gone from us because of drugs.
Some separated from us because we couldn’t give any more, because we said, “No.
Some are silent because they are “so busy.”
We have given everything . . . everything we had.
We taught them right from wrong.
We sang Jesus Loves Me to our Littles.
We did without . . . without food, so we could afford new shoes, a new prom dress.
We drove rattletrap cars, while our children drove better.
Some of us stayed in unfulfilling or abusive relationships for the sake of our children.
Some worked horrible jobs so our children could go to college.
We are empty from this giving.
Our bones are dry from weeping and giving.
I feel your pain my Dear Ones.
We feel alone now with our own Mothers are gone.
We are orphaned.
Silently crying as we drive to the grocery store and walk by the box of Fruit Loops we once fussed about when our children scattered them on the floor.
We long for messy floors with Fruit Loops that crunch loudly when we walk upon them.
We want to talk to our own Mother’s again . . . just once.
Our past decisions,
our current choices,
our role in society now that our children are gone.
We only know pain, and a longing for our children. We endure a deep searing pain that we have pushed into the deepest chamber of our heart.
We have run from this pain, afraid it would consume us, because pain will if we allow it.
We have suppressed our feelings, refusing to talk, silently whispering everything will be ok, saying this to ourselves just as we whispered it to our children years ago.
But everything isn’t ok.
Sunday will come and go without a hug, without a call, without the very thing we need, our children’s love.
Dear Ones, it is love I give to you today.
You are worthy of love.
I have wanted to comfort you all week, because my heart has been so heavy. Heavy with this brokenness, this dread. On Sunday, we will separate ourselves from social media for we dare not glance at the images of other mother’s with their children, smiling happily.
We deserve the same happiness.
We had it for a moment, a dewy bliss when we first brought our children to our breast and held them tight.
We promised them the moon.
We told them the moon was within their reach.
Some launched from the nest, pointed toward the moon and haven’t looked back. They have forgotten their mother, the same woman who urged them to be free-thinkers and independent human beings.
Our children have forgotten us.
And we as women have forgotten each other.
We have failed each other.
And so today, as we near Mother’s Day, my heart reaches out to you in love and friendship.
Happy Mother’s Day, with love.
Renea is an award-winning author, blogger, and Georgia Writers Group Board Member and the author of three books. She has belonged to a phenomenal critique group for over a decade. She is a passionate friend of SIBA and local independent booksellers throughout the South. Renea is vested in the writing community of North Carolina and Georgia and has judged multiple writing competitions. Every client she has accepted has enjoyed the pleasure of publication either traditionally, or via self-publication. Contact her here.