I’ve mentioned before that I grew up without a mom. When I was fourteen, I found the depositions for my custody trial and was inspired to write a poem based on what I read. I’m not a poet or much of a writer for that matter, but I went through a stage in my teen years (as I’m sure a lot of girls do) where I wrote some really bad poetry/prose in an attempt to sort through the insane emotions I was experiencing. I normally wouldn’t share it because it’s just so horrible, but something happened this week that made me pull it out of the archives and dust it off.
So here it is in all of it’s awful glory. Please forgive my fourteen-year-old self and enjoy the excessive use of punctuation. 🙂
Give me the scent of a mother, which I can never have.
Give me the counsel of a woman of my own.
Give me the arms of love that greet me when I come home.
Give me a woman I can call mom.
Give me the soft touches, wonderfulness, and love of a mother.
For these I have none but a woman beyond reach.
A woman who was not there to share her warmth, love, and scent.
I can blame no one for this and so I despair.
Why God?! Why can’t I have the scent of a mother?!
The other morning, pre-dawn when most people are enjoying some REM sleep, I got up to get a glass of water because sleep is not something that comes easily to me these days. B, who usually ends up in our bed at some point in the middle of the night, was sprawled out in the middle of the bed as he’s prone to do. I drank my water and climbed back into bed where he nuzzled back into his somewhat normal place in the crook of my neck (other favorite places are E’s pillow and my armpit). He got comfortable, let out a little sigh, and I heard a sleepy voice say, “I like the smell of you, Mama.”