A marker year, this very first, wherein I know your name,
I hear your voice and breathe the sound, grasp nothing is the same
And sensing this, a calmness comes, a self is realized
The hearts that beat our common blood, at last, are recognized.
It’s said there’s more to mothering than pushing out a life,
A cliché true but trite as well, when weighed against the strife,
Of shameful secret, darkly carried; then pain of pains and all alone
No one to care or even share, as life breaks free from blood, and bone.
Expected to cradle and nourish the life but, exacted payment still falls short;
Don’t grow close though for in the end – well, ‘round your heart? Build a fort
Against the day of “handing over” the life, its fate, and all its years
Bury this forever, it did not happen—so dry your foolish tears
And never speak of it again, or let your feelings show
About the life, where is she now? You’ll likely never know.
Just get on with your own life, get married, have a family, forget that one
You tried your best and for the most part, were fine, it was over and done.
Then Goddess Serendipity gathered threads of lives played out apart for years
She stretched every line to every other and sealed it there with tears
And fashioning a silver web — a safety net for fears, allowed the two of us to touch
Across miles of time and space — with pictures, letters, voices — we covered oh, so much
I still can’t quite believe it, I mean, the very fact of you
And that you want to know me and share with me, the things you do
I hope you’ll also share your feelings, your dreams, both bad or fine
Because I feel I’ve always known and loved you, mother of mine.
(written for Joyce Breen, April 1994 – our first Mother’s Day, May 1994 after being reunited
via phone December 1993)