This is the only childhood photo I have of my mother and I together. Like this photo, our relationship is faded, tattered at the edges. Things happened in our family, horrible things, that not only burned the bridge between us, but blew it into a million sharp fragments. We carry the shrapnel beneath our skin.
My mother and I have been estranged ten years. Recently, because of an illness in the family, we spoke. It was not a healing exactly, but it was something. I turned to my friend Laura Davis, who has written books on healing families, and asked her how I could even begin to heal with my mother.
“Start where you are,” she said.
But where are we?
We are zombies, walking wounded over the scorched earth, searching for signs of hope
behind the black-grey clouds of anger, pain, confusion.
Another year comes and goes and it’s Mother’s Day again, and I am bombarded with warm, fuzzy images on TV, in ads, in magazines, reminding me of what we are not.
There is no Hallmark card that fits us.
There is no card that says this;
You are my mother
You brought me – your choice at fifteen- into this world.
My DNA and history, my roots come through you
Your toxic relationships with men damaged me and yet in the aftermath,
I saw you stand alone, and understood how a woman could be fierce and strong
My scars, my tears, my nightmares, my courage, my fire, I owe to you
You created in me a warrior woman
For that I thank you
I’d like to list the things I love about you
But I’ve never really known you
I’ve seen glimpses– in the way you love animals and children, in your spirit of adventure, in the moments when you are soft and kind and vulnerable
Those glimpses are what gives me hope
It’s taken me a long time to forgive you
for the times you weren’t there to protect me
But I’m grateful for the times you were
I don’t know how to heal this sad and broken family
I only know it’s going to take something much bigger than me to map that road
I’ve spent years making peace with the bad memories,
while trying to hold on to the good
while praying we can get it right before we both leave this planet
You are my mother.
I wish you love. I wish you joy. I wish you hope.
I wish it were different.
I wish.

You May Also Like…

You Listened

How many times had you crept into their rooms at night and pressed your face against them to hear the soft hiss of...

Read More

The Sound

The sound of motorcycles revving in the driveway meant that Uncle Dan was home, and with him came the...

Read More

Meeting my Muslim Neighbors

Islamic Society of West Valley/ Inter-faith dinnerLast week, my eleven-year old son Evan confided in me that he’s been...

Read More

8 Comments

  1. Brian Hart

    How sad, Hollye. Yet, also beautiful.

    Reply
  2. Hollye Dexter

    Thank you, Brian. I'm not sad today- I'm grateful for the good things, which are so plentiful, and hopeful.

    Reply
  3. Anonymous

    Beautifully said Hollye. I hope your Mom reads this column.

    Reply
  4. Zaphod900

    This comment has been removed by the author.

    Reply
  5. Zaphod900

    It's Brian again, logged in this time.

    Not that you are sad, Hollye, it's just a sad sentiment, and one that I can fully relate to. My parents are both still alive and they can't seem to spend more than 3 or 4 minutes on the phone with me, at which time they end it abruptly.
    I have tried so many things to be interesting to them, but they are just not interested, so I stopped trying.
    I am mostly OK with that, but still get sad. Which is what your post brought out in me.

    And isn't that what a artist wants, to affect her audience?

    Reply
  6. Hollye Dexter

    I think there are a lot of us with complicated and disappointing relationships with our parents and families. Probably more of us than the Hallmark crowd. But we get to make our own lives different- that's the beautiful part.

    I'm glad to know we connected and that you related to this post. I'll write happier stuff next week. : )

    Reply
  7. amy ferris

    perfect.
    i wish …
    everyone had your heart.

    Reply

Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published.