Mother lives in me –
her hopes and fears
now embodied
in my choices,
this guilt borne
of her suffering…
and her mother –
who laboured often
with unwelcome toil,
her only respite
widowhood –
it’s her legacy
I bear.
Potential –
who once appeared
with all the radiant
charm of youth,
exists within, also,
although our connection –
drowned out by the banter
of those gone before –
lacks substance.
I remember how
we used to sing –
hearts joyful,
full of daring.
How even in the face
of rigidity, we raised
our voices, dreamed
Now, both distracted –
I, shaking off fragments
of Mother’s hapless life,
extracting splinters
of a grandmother
destined to woe;
potential,
glances away,
forlorn as
a forgotten child,
pouting.
One Woman's Quest 