Days of Mothers

Silohuette of Gloria Merriam, one of my mom's childhood friends, California January 2015

(a spontaneous poem on Mother's Day 2015)

My days of mothers cut short.
Turned by the sun into tinier versions of ones
given to most,
my mothers died at my sixth
my thirteenth
my nineteenth years.

A daughter with no mothers
many others stepped forward
or I called forward.
One confessed she didn't feel worthy:
not a good enough mother already
to the two children she bore.
My boyfriend (a bore)
said I'd done wrong by her
put her in an impossible position.

I know by now as an author
as a teacher
a mentor
that he was right in one way:
being a mother
giving birth
or raising to live on this earth
any creation
is impossible.

And yet, here we are.
Alive.
Reading.
Breathing.
Sleeping.
Loving.

My days of mothers seemed short -
cut off by early death.
And yet
I hear my neighbors on both sides
celebrate their firsts
with wailing children at their chests,
I get and give all the love I need
from families I married into
or create myself.
And yet
the Tibetan Buddhists
who make up my family say
Everyone was once my mother:
every insect
every cat
every serial killer.

Even myself.
I was once
I still am
Mother to myself.
Impossible.
Actual.