That which,

That which haunts me endlessly, is my greatest strength.

That which beats mercilessly at this chest, is my greatest hope.

That which makes me weep and tear these cloths to shreds.

Is that which I piece together time and time again.

The shreds, my fears, my love, the depth of my wishes.

As I place them together again.

The image is me, that is what I see now, me.

Not your view of me.

My memory of me.

Terrified to the depth, that perhaps the words of my father ring true.

I am a hole.

Broken thing that needs beating.

A broken chime. One tune cranking upon the other.

Perhaps I am what my children depict me as.

Replaceable, useless hag.

Their minds twisted by one who deems my wounds as significant as a hangnail.

And perhaps their father, my once husband is right.

Yet for now, I will use my voice again.

Kneel on the floor and pick up the splinters of my heart.

Old dishes cast aside for one more agreeable.

And I will rise again, this woman.

There is more than your words that you use to describe me.

There is this girl.

This child.

This young lady.

This older woman passing middle age.

Who believes, even if you do not.

That she is so much more than a hole.

A punching bag.

Something you can put in a box, placed on a shelf, replaceable, a lost cause.

You cannot define me.

With a name meaning worthy of love.

I apologize, I take the name my mother offered upon me while I rested inside her.

Madeline, not worthy of love, Love itself.

And for that I will love life itself.

Oh mom, I miss you.

You only, no one else.

I will forever seek you, in every moment.

In each sunset and sunrise.

Even in my children’s eyes, which I never see.

Because I have been made disposable.

May I seek, in every moment, to be more and more like you.

May I find the honor in carrying my own breathe.

Speaking in my voice.

May I find myself worthy to love myself.

To cherish myself.

Oh mother, oh woman.

I feel you by my side.

Right next to me.

I remember.

I will never forget.

The honor, the awe, of being a woman.

This woman.

Not a hole.

Not a punching bag.

Not disposable.

This source, this life.

Like the snow falling and bouncing like feathers.

One upon each other.

I am close now mom, Charlotte.

I remember what you taught me, without saying a word.

I hear no other voices.

I feel no other touch.

How could I ever replace.

How could I even attempt to walk away.

From my only true love.

Oh mom, Charlotte.

I miss you.

Yes, I remembered your name.

And I remembered mine too.

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~ by HopeGlenn on January 30, 2017.

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