your mother
was caustic,
toxic,
abusive,
vindictive,
twisted,
dangerous:
If she was irresistibly drawn
to making much too clear
that her unhappiness—
her pain,
her dysfunction,
her drama—
was more precious to her
than you could ever be,
so that as a child
you
had to live your life
frightfully and desperately
scrounging
for whatever
corrupted version of love
you could squeeze from her,
then this Mother’s Day,
while others
(as you imagine; as we all imagine)
are basking in the warmth
of their exemplary mothers,
you close your eyes,
and say a prayer
for two mothers:
the one you never had,
and the one she never had.
And then say a loving prayer
for yourself,
for the child
raised too alone.
And then open your eyes—
and there is the world,
beautiful again.
Uncorrupted again.
And
fuck ’em.
Fuck ’em all.
Because you are still here,
and you are not done yet.