My mother tells me I’m a star, I think she’s right but I didn’t want show her I believed her before she got to the part where she told me she loved me, I didn’t hear her say it. So I smiled at her and placed her words down as the layer on a canvas before the portrait. I summoned upon reason to stop my anticipation, but I’m still waiting.
We beat ourselves up because of words that are left tied up in knots of truth. Never setting the hand free to define its motives, paint then. Colour away the uncertainty and camouflage the regret into a cloak light enough to rest on your dishonest shoulders, remorse is a heavier burden than failure,by all means set up your isle, gather your paintbrushes and paint yourself into happy. I have never known why the realist things are the hardest. It takes time to conjure up the strength to write the first line. So I left my heart hanging at the edge of fear and found the real definition of feeling. I did not know what it is like to enter an emotion with nudity and a colouring book still waiting to tell its story. What living in every moment like breathing is all it takes to be happy. What greeting reality with a clenched fist and eyes full of first impressions felt like. My mother is an avalanche of grace. She is the whispering breeze in a thunderstorm, there is more to her silence than empty space, it is when she doesn’t that she speaks the most. But maybe she didn’t have to say it, love is an unfinished sentence left to sort itself out with the ageing of time. I loved my mother the moment she allowed my body to become within her. Her laughter was like my photo synthesis and each time she spoke of me as life I heard her heart knocking as loud as the hospital machines she bellowed next to.
One spring sunday morning. She uttered creation with beauty wrapped all over it. And My grandmother,dancing and chanting like she had been reminded why catapillers are worth nurturing.
Me,still learning to inhale breath from this new atmosphere I was introduced to all these new things and all I wanted was to know the woman who carried me like a broken wing still waiting to be re-attached. She is an angel with a halo that embraces all my imperfections. I am just like her, I forgive too many times than I have received apologies ,our arms spread wide like a savoured hallelujah in the midst of the mountains. We both love real with all our energy until there is nothing left inside to give. I wonder if that is why father left, he still wanted to hold on to his energy. Love can drive us to be the most generous beings, sometimes leaving us with nothing. I am my mothers daughter from the stretch of my spine to my uncivilised silence and mind spasms.
I wonder what poets name their children,what gifts they pass on to them. I am yet a Metaphor to become still a smiley to compare a name a noun enough to be proper, I have still a happily ever after love poem to meet and say yes to. I do not know what my favourite verse in the bible is but I left this poem unfinished to remind me of the pilgrimage I have yet to travel sunsets away from today I will hear mamas voice echo the words I longed for most and it will be like the moon is my best friend grinning before she tells me, told you so.