Mothers

Our mothers make us,
raise us, teach us,
and then, at least the best ones,
let us go.

Then,
sometimes much too soon,
we must return the gift
and let them go,
sometimes all at once,
sometimes bit by painful bit.

But, just as they
did not completely let us go,
still worrying in secret
when we were silent too long,
or made choices they didn't understand
still loving us
despite silence, or physical distance
remembering our birthdays
when we weren't paying attention ourselves

We, too, will not let go.
We will keep their love with us
keep a smile, a bit of laughter
a half-remembered (heart-remembered) lullaby
And all they taught us,
intentionally or not

We will forever be our mother's daughters
every bit as much as we are their free, grown children
And in the shape of our eyes, perhaps,
the line of a jaw, the timbre of voice
and the stories we tell their grandchildren

We carry our mothers with us, for everyone to see.
(And marvel at: they live on, still.
Death never wins.)

Originally written for my friend Christine, on the loss of her mother Maureen Langlois, who died of cancer not long after my mom died of ALS.