“There must be those among whom we can sit
down and weep and still be counted as warriors.”
― Adrienne Rich
My mother died of brain cancer when I was 9.
She won’t be able to read these pages, but my
daughter will someday.
After I gave birth to her we lay together in the
hospital bed and she curled her 6.5 pound body
right on top of my voice box because the world
was such a cold, foreign place. My voice
became her home.
Now, she’s 3 and I am afraid of leaving her but I
can’t control nature. She is like the waves and I
am not the moon. I am only her Mother, but like
the moon I am always pulling her towards me
gently like the waves.
So, this is also her page and tonight we will pull
out a fresh piece of paper and paint the moon
and ocean together. She can paint all the stars
and I will tell her a little more about my Mother,
who still pulls me towards her gently like
the moon on the silver-capped black waves.