Posted on by thetruthandtheliesofthejourney

I Have My Mama’s Hands

I have my mama’s hands.

Each little intricate vein running through, just as hers.

I have admired this for as long as I can remember.

We have sat them side by side, linked together by an ancestry of generations.

Both pairs having dug through many trials and tribulations

coming out scared, but still ready to fist forward and fight through another day

Even if that’s the only thing they can manage to do that day.

I have held these mirrored hands as a little girl simply walking across the street,

And I have held these hands to hers as I cried, broken hearted.

And now, I have held these hands until the blood was left only flowing through mine.

As the cool crisp air floats into season, I will wallow in the silence.

The silence that seeps in slowly as we each grow older.

A breeze that slowly runs across each and every wrinkle,

taking its time, getting to know each and every inch of the day’s trials that have been laid across our paths.

The chill across my skin makes each bend of the elbow or knee stiff like an un-oiled wheel.

But even with the feel of an old body lifting me out of bed in the morning,

I will yearn to watch each brightly colored leaf fall from each tree.

A rebirth of nature and a rebirth of the world.

A world that will inevitably go on.. circling in the galaxy as we, in our bubble, grieve the loss

of an impeccably compassionate, perfectly constructed, vibrant angel.

A second chance, over and over, as this planet bows with a humbleness hoping that

we will nurture and care for it once again.

And a second chance, over and over, for a rebirth of our own spirits.

This chill throughout my body reminds me that…… I. am. alive.

So at the end of each day, as the temperature drops, I will watch the sun go down with a

humble heart.

I will sit late into the night, appreciating the quiet and speaking my grateful heart into the universe.

Photo by Luis Dalvan on Pexels.com

Fall, fall, take me to your leader.

Let me bow at their feet with thankfulness for the gift to see through and past my body’s pain, and this life’s

burdens,

straight to the beauty in the chill bumps.

Let me honor these hands, my mama’s hands, by giving them life.

Oh God, give me the chance to use these hands for good in the memory of the one who passed them on to me.

And even as I tremor, and even when I am at my lowest, let the beauty around me humble me….

And my mama’s hands.

Posted on by thetruthandtheliesofthejourney

A Mother’s Cry..

Photo by Emre Kuzu on Pexels.com
Photo by Wendelin Jacober on Pexels.com

My whole world has become complacent lately. Feeling like a machine with my heart renewed on an assembly line by a conveyor belt each day only for it to be broken into pieces once again. Broken heart after broken heart. I am a born again living dead girl. Floating around preparing myself for the next jab. A pride carried from a naive heart who only felt she had gotten at least one thing right in her fragile, brittle life.

Take that molded rug right out from under me. Over and over again until the bends of these knees that have prayed for you shatter in two. While I lay here, a puddle of poison and battered, I will finally admit to myself that it was a facade.

With every strength and effort in me to break a cycle and do it better than those who had come before me, I have seemingly failed. I lied to myself and continue to do so. And since that was the only good that was ever in me, I’m emptied of a want to. I am hollowed with a who am I. I am robbed of a purpose.

Convinced now that I everywhere I turn, everything is polished before I get there, and rusted out by the time I pass through.

Damaged goods. Homeless.

How does one who is broken time and time again, die inside, and then awaken again to die once more but never stay dead?

When I said I’d take the pain of this world off of you if I could, I never knew or imagined that it would mean that I would take not only the pain, but the weight of every ocean, the blame, and every ounce of hate and resentment that had passed through the vicinity of us.

But even so, torn limb from limb, I steady myself to stand once again with half the sun rising on my beaten face, to take my place on that front line once more.

A failure badly bruised, mentally paraplegic, and dead but still breathing; prepared without hesitation to do it again. And again.

A maternal love is unfailing, unwavering. At least that is what it’s supposed to be. And maybe you’ll never see it in me, or find any sense of pride in my silent and suffering efforts, but I will press on in it in hopes that in the end, you will awaken to the knowing of how profound the possibility is of someone, who is so broken, numb, and beat down, could still love someone else and fight for someone else with an unfathomable, immeasurable, unfaltering, unconditional, and powerful will to live again, and also still love someone else with an entirety and unbreakable spirit, while unable to look at her own self in the mirror.

Live fully, my sweet joy. Live powerfully as my favorite chapter. I’ll be here fighting it for us. And always loving you out loud and working through the dead in me silently.

And even when you didn’t think I cared, or don’t think I care, I have loved you and will love you with every fiber and every second of my existing…

Posted on by thetruthandtheliesofthejourney

Oh Mama..

asphalt dark dawn endless
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Oh Mama.

I promise my heart is true. Even with that and the stars, this world is cold, and my lips are turning blue.

I tried Mama, I did. To do what must be done. From evening moonlight, to the smooth wee of the morning, and even as I watched the marvelous, bright sun.

But the Earth, she don’t agree with me, and tries to test me so. She begs for me, and tangles me, urging me to go.

I fight and pant, and dry my eyes, before anyone can see.. this beaten soul and wretched mind, and now, there are many real me’s.

Oh Mama, tell me I did it right, and the sky really is that shade of blue. And the birds flying low, and swooping down, are not out to get me and you.

Tell me why each smile is different, but every frown is exactly the same. And remind me always who I should be, should I begin to forget my name.

Oh Mama, these days grow shorter, and the time for forgiveness is cutting down to very few. The time is almost up for us; for them, for me, and for you.

Each moment of joy is more important, than it was the day before. And everything seems to intrigue me, and hardly nothing is a bore.

Oh Mama.. Can you hear it too? The bells chiming in the wind? And the hoot of the owl, when the night grows calm, and angels that they send?

If what I am doing is not enough, Mama, can you tell me what to do? To make it so when I lie down at night, my heart is full of hope, and not this shade of blue….

Oh Mama, you are mine and now, these days, I am a Mama as well… And I wonder one day, will she read these words, and catch the sadness spell?

Oh Mama, if you are here, and I am not, could you tell her one thing for me?

Tell her she was my everything, my heart, and every moment. And tell her everything I did, was for goodness, fullness, and so she would never go through my torment. Tell her the mind is a dangerous place to live, and tell her to step away from it once in a while. To breathe the fresh air that’s left in this foggy world, and to embrace every second of being a child.

Oh Mama.. we didn’t have the best go around, but as a mother now, I forgive in new ways. And I found a way to love myself, in that, miracles, and love is a new word I learned to say……