For Mothers and Others Part Two…

It’s Monday and the day after THAT day. There is a subliminal reason I am certain, that I surround myself in her favorite flowers.  She who is not named on Mother’s day. I immerse myself rather into my own role of Mother and Grandmother. But she is always there, in the air, in the walls, in the mirror, even flaunting her presence in the boisterous blooms of roses surrounding my front porch. It is only the day after, separated by hours and choke-held tears that I can call myself “Daughter” and consider the woman who birthed me.

I was the “good daughter” or at least I tried to be for years until I could be “good” no more. I truly believe she tried in her own way to mother me. But mental illness and addiction had stronger sway in her troubled life. There were interludes of insanity that peppered my formative years. And stories of…