With pursed lips my mother gazes
From stark shadows at the doorway,
Stares at me glossy eyed from the other side
The grave unable to retain her mystique.
Pierced by the glow of gaunt eyes,
Reproached still by her silhouette,
The silence of closed lips speaks volumes
Her disapproval abiding beyond the grave.



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S74rw4rd's picture

This reminds me much of my

This reminds me much of my own situation, and the reply you made, here, "she did the best she could . . ." may be the key to my own resolution with my mother.  My mother and I began to clash in early childhood.  I especially dreaded summer breaks, because, at home alone with her (while my father worked as a civil servant), I was often subjected not only to her weird conversations, but to physical abuse that, today, would be considered criminal.  My paternal grandmother once took me aside and said, "None of this is your fault.  You have nothing to do with this," meaning my mother's erratic, often critical, and sometimes downright evil behavior.  I realize, after reading your comment, that she did the best she could (which was not much) with the little she had.  


georgeschaefer's picture

I always thought a mother's

I always thought a mother's love was unconditional but now I'm having second thoughts.

Stephen's picture

She did the best she could with her sick mind.