This tiny, distressed girl is my mom. I'm guessing she's about two years old.
My heart breaks when I see her so sad: those chubby hands and the way her fingers rest on her cheek.
I want to reach into this photo and scoop her up in my arms. I'd hug her and hold her until she feels loved and safe.
I love you, Mom.
This poem is for you.
Why do you sorrow, wee girl? Tell me all your heartache.
Love falls short, just out of the grasp of your plump little hand.
The Dear One didn’t come while you tarried alone in a dark room, so you chose a different path
Once, a pink room satiated your soul but only for a moment…and forever
You sacrificed soulful slivers in the aspens, where fall’s quiet whispers pricked your lonely heart
You listened to coyotes howl but no one called your name
Do not fret, little one. Saw off the past and its tangled regrets and hurl it into the river
Let me hold you, dance with me
Eat the buttered toast I serve you on an old, flowered plate
Rest your curls on my chest and breathe as you press your ear to my heart
I cannot fix your hurting, wee Heather, but I love you, I love you, I love you
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