Mother

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Sam LaRoche

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In the still of the darkness
You are the light
Children make chaotic melodies out of those who carried them
By way of one or another
And sometimes they are called mother
She is the beginning
We are tethered to her from her fingertips to shadow
Wherever she goes we linger like loose string on a sweater
She is catching missteps and teardrops
And then weaving lullabies into the night sky
My childhood smells like my mother's skin
And the brush of her cheek against mine
My mother looks like the glow of dusk resting on the skyline
Silhouetted in the cove of our kitchen

Our mothers complicated nightingales
How easy it is to push her away
Yet, we are craving her gaze upon us
She is the first we are crying out for her in the dark
Is to say that we are enchanted with our mothers
In ways we never stop painting pictures for her to hang
She is the only cure for fevers and bad dreams
All the luxuries of the world pale in comparison to anything she has ever touched
Not the way she tucked the sheets into the bed
Cooking, home and her love are synonymous with one another

She made life seamlessly flow from one season to the next
As if she hushed the moon to sleep and called the sun to wake
Never outgrowing her imprint
She is who we see reflected as we unconsciously mimic her essence unto our own children
The character of the mother could raise empires and make mountains crumble
They are as much a gentle breeze as they are tornadoes
Hiding the length of her hair
Her sacrifice all too often unnoticed

Mother may bare the weight of salvation and deliver it to the world
And still sit on the side of thrown
Her needs and wants evaporate by the sound of her children
Her exhaustion never seem to derail her from bending to
One more story
One more kiss
One more hug
She knows all too well that the last be the last time she is asked

I now understand as I hold my young children what twenty years time will feel like in this home
Idle
To do lists completed
Silence from the furniture Unmoved
Floors kept
Sleep begotten night after night
Yet still I worry

So  here I rest in the fog that has captured me
Call it stockholm
A distant echo of who I was
Small glimmers come through
But now I stare across the lake looking at myself
Waist deep surrendering to the wake
Gladdened by the cries that pull me deeper
It is to my children I rise now not the sun
For what I mistaken to be the universe was inside of me all along
They are infinity unexplained
And Maybe if I plant trees along the way they will stay close
And when they out pace me I will give them meadows too roam
For when they look back I shall be there
Children ready before their mothers will ever be
But on my call darlings return back to me
Motherhood
Navigating a ship in the night when the stars are rearranging themselves
Mothers holding small hands walking them through life
Hoping that those same hands will be there to walk us out
If I am to leave any legacy it is that when my children think of me they feel home
Children come through us
Landing here between worlds in eager arms
Some still waiting
Some grieving
The privilege is mine to be mother
To have experienced
Something so common yet profound
A constant reminder of divinity
A love so enduring I found myself being able
To breathe underwater

In the still of the darkness
They are the light
It is through my children
Humanity is restored in me
Reminding me to pull back the helms
All around me I see now through the eyes of Mother
Pending patience over intolerance
Giving more of myself than I ever knew I could
If I am to contribute to good of this world
May it be unconditional love my children carry through them

Mother
Spooling the lead
Webbing sanctuary
Letting my children run free
Chasing the wind arms extended
But on my call my darlings
Return back to me
Return back to me
Back to me

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