A Washed Up, Old Poem for Mother’s Day

When I think of what’s it like
to grow up,
I think it’s that moment when you’re old enough to understand
why your mother didn’t smile
that day,
or why she was crying
while washing the dishes.
You think:
“hey, I’ve grown a little bit.”

But it’s sad- it’s very sad.
You wish that moment hadn’t come when you’ve realized,
maybe mama has a life of her own,
too.

But you can’t accept it!
You just can’t.
Your mother is supposed to be that marvelous creature that radiated every morning,
that made the best of foods,
that had kisses with magic healing abilities.

She’s your Goddess,
and Gods don’t feel pain, but assimilate ours
into them.
But then you grow up
and think:
“maybe she isn’t a Goddess after all.”

Though you still can’t accept the fact she’s just a human.
She’s MOTHER;
she defeats the evils in the world
and protects you while you sleep
at the corner of her broken smile.

And like that,
mothers veer into our minds,
carrying the stature of a nameless creature;
not God, not human,
just a bunch of coherent words we run to
when we forget how to read.

You grow up to understand
that maybe,
just maybe
your mother had a good reason to have been so mad that day.
Maybe she had a good reason to not force a smile that dinner.

Maybe we shouldn’t have watched her back as the sound of the faucet’s water
covered the sound of bitter sobbing, while we tried not to make a sound and alert her to our presence,
fearing she will know
-like she always does-
that she’s not what we
initially
perceived her to be.

To realize that,
mama, too, can be defeated.
That’s what it was like for me,
to grow up. .

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