The Hands That Raised Me

A poem for my mother

Image by Phil Hearing

The Hands That Raised Me 

Ah! My mother’s love,
is a tangible thing indeed.
An ever-present bastion of warmth and comfort.

Hmm…

I once thought she was fabricated 
from titanium and steel,
a unstoppable current that swept through the world with vigour and zest.

To think I found her almost invulnerable,
a stronghold 
of flesh and blood.

Oh the folly!

I see her now, 
my mother.

White filaments in her raven curls,
weary gaze and wavering gait,
grasping for balance,
in a world that’s become more frantic than ever.

A woman 
who poured from an empty cup 
till it turned bone dry,
yet never hardened her heart. 

I see a girl like me, 
who once dreamt 
and needed love,
the way I now need hers.

I revere her, 
this mother of mine
not because she is 
dauntless and deathless,
but because 
she isn’t.

So maybe,
we’ll frolic in the rain, 
my mother and I.

---

Let’s Unpack It

It’s my Mum’s birthday today and I find myself reflecting on our journey together so far.

To say that I’ve been lucky to have her as my mother is an understatement. She’s my backbone, my friend, my confidant and a girl’s girl through and through. This wasn’t always the case. Growing up, my mother with her formidable and assertive personality would always swoop in to situations with the flair of a thousand galloping horses while I preferred a much more subtle approach.

I’ve always been highly emotionally sensitive and prone to overstimulation so naturally, in my younger years, I found her overwhelming to my senses and just generally too much. I hated the attention when all I wanted was to coast by unnoticed.

On a lighter note, it didn’t help that she’s always been the “final boss” of the morning people, while I absolutely loathed (still do) mornings.

I could go on and on about the dynamic we had, but the bottom line is that I spent a lot of my younger years sequestered in my room as much as possible to escape being caught in her orbit.

Now that I’m older, and see the world differently, I have a deeper understanding and appreciation of her. I still treasure my peace and quiet but I also recognise that there’s room for everyone to be who they are and a most importantly, a little compromise on both ends goes a long way.

I’ve slowly discovered that my mum isn’t just a mother and fixer of all, but she’s also just a girl like any other who loves sequin fabrics and shiny baubles.

I miss her when she’s not around and a phone call with her on my worst days makes everything better. Last year when I was going through the worst mental crisis of my life, she dropped everything to look after me for an extended period, despite my half-hearted protests.

My mother didn’t get the love she’s shown me, from her own mother, nor did her mother get love from her mother before her, and so I see how hard she’s worked to break the cycle so I make sure to show her love as much as I can. It’s amazing how everything has come full circle.

---

I’m The Forgotten Muse — a poet, a storyteller, and a kindred spirit to anyone who’s ever felt lost in their own mind. I hope my words have struck a chord in your heart and may our paths cross again soon. Please consider subscribing today and making a small donation to stay in touch and support me.

---