Dear Mother – By Louise Marcroft

Dear Mother

I see you, a distant but familiar figure, far away.
May you not fall away from my eyes or the special corner of my heart.
I see you, at last, as your daughter and as your sister. The sister you never had.
The swirl of busyness and time elapsed, of mistakes and misunderstandings, and of imperfect glimpses through a cloudy kaleidoscope – these can no longer confound me.
My vision now sweet, and precious at the first blooms of spring, like the ones we used to enjoy together.
I see your pain, long to reach back in time to sooth you.
I see your oppression, and yearn to lift you up.
I see your charm and delight in simple things, and know these qualities are ones I can take forward in myself.
I long to hold your hand again, to brush your auburn hair, to go shopping with you.
Oh, if I could take you to the newest coffee shops in Marrickville or even to the Gasoline Pony bar for supper.
Yes, you’d love it, yes you would.
And they’d flutter around, all the young and groovy staff, just like they used to when we went to Newtown and here and there, an elder in their midst.
I still have your pastel Tupperware and your wooden spoons, and the coffee tables you made, and your sky-blue Christmas pudding mixing bowl.
We cook your recipes and have a special dinner on your birthday, and raise a glass of champagne to you on Mother’s Day.
But how I wish I could see you at my table again, and swing our legs as we sit in my garden in the afternoon sun.