Who is that old woman I see? Decrepit and smiling, amused to see me.
How you’ve grown to the man I see, a specimen of wonder standing before me.
I feel a thread connected to her, a strip of genetic sequences from womb to heart, frail and ready to break apart
Eating well are you, taking care? Is that woman beside you carying your heir?
Tell me mother, was it worth, to leave your family to fend off the earth?
My youth I was chasing you see, the birth of you was like a curse to me. To reverse the dial I tried, to reclaim the time lost into the tide.
And while you ran with riches and slept with the bears, your boy stole apples while his stomach teared
I broke the clock to come see you, begged time to stop to not age you. But convoluted was the journey to come find you, and the gates of time only made it harder to.
You picked a side and left us bare.
I wanted both my son, I wanted you my son. The moment the basket left the river I ran back into the water, but the waves took you over and I lost all my power. Regret and shame shrouded me. As time passed I made peace that I set you free. Now look at where you stand with love beside you
Love you took away from me
I’m sorry my son, for what I did to you. Just know that each passing day I thought of you. From afar I hoped that I could love you, to kiss and to hold and to feed you. Yes I was your mother, but aren’t I woman too?
So tell me then mother, what did your journey teach you? Besides the greying of hairs and life moving passed you
I loved you my son. You grew up tough, all edges and smoke, a diamond in the rough.
I could have used more, your love was not enough.
I’m sorry my son, I wish I never put you in that basket. I should buried my dreams along with your father’s casket. Tell me son, I look at your woman, beautiful and caring, Was your journey all that bad and not worth bearing?
It was a choice I never had.
And so here I am, humbled on my knees. I’m asking you to forgive me, could you spare a dying a woman some pennies please?
Get up mother, come with us. The moment my son is born, you can take the bus.
A tear drops from her face and she raises her frail hands, the calloses on the knuckles bare, from punching the clock every year everywhere. A sadness lingers as the thread reunites, it thickens as we get closer but it doesn’t feel right. Should blood feel thicker than water, as fate seemed to have brought her, but why do I feel like I’ve only met a long lost stranger?
theStylus 