A poem in honour of mothers
Me probably in my eighth month of pregnancy with my son, who is now 20.
Our bodies carry you, vessels of your very existence. Women bore from women and men from them.
Our hearts carry the nurturing love given with tender words spoken in guiding counsel. Daily lives filled with guilt and doubt if we are doing it at all right, or if we could’ve done better.
Our hearts heavy when we feel your sorrow but could also burst from pride to see the person you have become. We sacrifice for your well-being at our own choice, not a burden for you to carry but ours to bear. Secrets kept so you are spared.
We are the deepest of wells filled with wisdom and we welcome you to drink. We comfort you in our bosom even when you think you are too old to be held.
We are the daughters of mothers and the mothers to daughters and sons.
I want to add that not all mothers necessarily have carried you in their physical bodies, they are still vessels of your existence, nonetheless. As those that were physical vessels but suffered loss. Mothering is not a physicality but an act of love.
I wrote this in honour of my mother who has now passed. I feel she still carries me, as I carry her in me, for my daughter and son.