My Mother

My mother told me all the things I never was,
then she wondered why I couldn’t be
the way she thought I should be.
My mother told me what she thought I should be,
but she was always disappointed
in me.

Her facade was one of loving kindness,
always caring, always remembering.
Her facade was just what she intended
it to be, a way to hide the coldness,
a way to keep from others, all that she pretended
to be.

I listened to her stories, her years of growing up,
and I envied some of the times that she had.
I learned to listen between the lines,
for what she could not say, for what had made her sad,
for what would eventually undermine
her world.

My mother believed in perfection,
something she felt I could learn to understand.
My mother taught me about rejection,
without even realizing why she took this stand,
without even wondering if this might cause harm
to me.

Even knowing all of these things, I wonder why
I still regret the distance, the false generosity.
Even knowing she had somehow failed to try
to love me, just for who I was, not one to pity,
but one to treasure for being born to be
just me.

By becoming a mother, I learned much more;
I learned how little my mother had really cared.
By becoming a mother, I could show my children
that I knew how to love; I wanted to stop looking for
her approval, her love, and to stop being scared
to be me.

My mother left me a difficult road to travel,
a long road with many wasted, regretful years.
My mother is not to blame for what I have become,
though the marks she left are known by my trail of tears.
My mother hides inside the world she could not overcome,
but I have promised that will never be the world
for me...

Lora Frikken ~ 10-11-03