There must be millions of us
Who can't pick out cards on Mother's Day . . .
The cards don't say what we feel.
My mother was done with me the day I got married.
Fortunately for her, it was as I turned 18.
She seldom looked back.
Today I remember her hands
And that she read to us . . .
I try not to think about her ~ ~
but it's hard not to.
I finally threw away her address,
And I changed my phone number.
I've stopped turning to her because all she ever gives me ~ ~
are excuses
So what kind of mother did I become?
One who could let go . . .
One who cries a lot.
My kids don't buy me cards either.
They buy Mother's Day gifts for their dad.
Maybe I deserve that ~ ~
but I don't think so.
This year my daughter asked for my address
So she could mail me a gift.
She sent the special music box I gave her for her 16th birthday ~ ~
SMASHED.
I cried again this morning
Wishing I could just stop caring.
I'm angry too! I want them to disappear.
I didn't make my children mean . . .
That's their own contribution to this life.
How do I tell you what Mother's Day means?
I wish they hadn't made it.
May, 2000
| 
The Garden