The Mothers Who Made Me

The past several weeks I have been writing letters to women who have been mentors and mothers to me in deep, profound, and lasting ways. These are the thoughts that came together.

The Mothers Who Made Me

For mothers who spent long nights

tracing the curves of my ears to help me sleep

who rocked me in the dead of night, who made

special magic to keep the monsters at bay,

for the ones who taught me the Good Books,

the stories that winnowed into my bones and

reminded me of what it means to live.

For mothers who ushered me through adolescence

the perpetual tide of emotion and

the power of the undertow, but somehow

taught me not to drown in my own self-image,

in my compulsion to be seen.

For mothers who helped me to see myself clearly,

even the faults

even the shortcomings

And to learn the bittersweet tang when the words hit your tongue

words like,

I was wrong.

I am angry.

Let’s talk.

I’m sorry.

Women who taught me it is a brave thing to cry.

I have many mothers who made me

teachers, mentors, preachers, mothers, best friends, aunts,

and all human, too.

For those who say it takes two to make a family,

how lonely life must be.

Because the mothers who made me

are legion,

like spokes on a wheel

like clusters of stars who shine bright for the world

(the light I have seen by

on many dark nights)

for one mother cannot be

Everything or Everyone

and there are so many mothers in this world

waiting

just waiting

to help the ones who come after

to teach them to

teach themselves

what it means to be alive.