But my fingers cannot quite tap the letters.
If they do you might see more of me, that you thought was all better.
That there were no lasting effects, that I had moved on.
You might figure out I am not perfect. That I raise my voice to my children.
The ones I cannot let go of because I fear.
Fear of them growing up, running in the street;
If I turn my back for a moment, they might be gone.
Fear that they may be taken too;
it has made me edgy and grouchy, holding on tight.
The day of mothers made that so clear.
I don't remember much of this day last year.
But the last and yesterday are bookends,
of the person I don't want to be.
I remember Truth that says I don't have to be perfect
I don't have be the world's idea of mom.
It feels like I have forgotten to love.
I lean and cling to the one who first loved.
I recall the feeling, the knowing I once had,
that this is who I want to be more than anything else;
I hope, I pray, I become more of her again today.