Mother's Day brings a swirl of emotions, particularly when children have grown, gone off to live their lives, "free at last."
I wrote this poem, sitting under a spiritual shrub you might say, my lament for the kind of mother I wish I had been.
The Unflappable Mother
I wish
I had been the unflappable mother
The mother whose cake fell and bread didn’t rise
And neither did her spirits fall nor temperature soar
The mother who overcooked the turkey
and under-baked the pie
The mother who didn’t launch: Was it you?
Going into orbit like the shuttle
Waiting to land when the storm passed
A landing who-knows-where?
While onlookers held their breath
I wish
Fingerprints on the wall or finger-licks on a cake
Made me smile
Made me feel cozy in my fragile cocoon
A maker-of-home
A safe place
Breathing space
Growth as natural as sleep
With dreams pleasant
Preceding the dawn
I wish
My tirades had vented
Like stale air sucked out into a vacuum
Atmosphere behind
Clean like mountain air
Tingly, cool, scented
Where breathing deeper
Unconsciously renews spirits
A grain of salt
Moves a mountain of regret
Better than the aftermath of tears
I wish
I had been the unflappable mother
Instead of perfecting the imperfect
Accentuating the flaws
Noting the negligible
Pleasing the indifferent
Punishing myself
Mote and beam balancing
The world tilted just enough
To affect the climate
copyright, Carol Frugé
