As I write Christmas cards, fill them
full of cheer, I realise how much I still miss
how very dear to me she always was.
My story is a long, fluid one
(aren’t they all)
and, sometimes it’s hard
to talk about the things which happened
as I live through its battles
The ups and downs of this roller coaster life
but, somewhere in my 16th year I told her I was
gay, fearing what she’d say, she said:
“My darling daydreaming Bren, I always knew
there was something so special about you.
I don’t care what you are, you’re mine
and, I love you.”
She empowered me to become who
I was always meant to be and not have to hide
who I am in any dark closets or
harvest the fear of being constantly
caught living a lie.
At seventeen I made her cry.
Enlisting in the army, she said I must be barmy
but she knew I had that goal set firmly in my mind
and when she watched my passing out parade
she stood and waved as proud as any other mother
as the band played and we all marched past
in perfect symmetry.
Happy were those days…now… distant memories
and as I write these words at Christmas time
I may shed a tear or two but will not weep for tho’
she is not in sight and hasn’t been for years
I sometimes think of her… then, feel the
slightest wisp of air move my hair and gain
comfort in the thought of knowing she’s
© Daydreamertoo *All rights reserved
*My mother was never perfect. She had her first baby aged 16 and made many, many big mistakes for which there were
awful consequences for all of us and, though I loved her dearly, I was angry with her. But, as I matured and began to look at the big picture, rather than purely from my own aspect, I began to realise the battles she must have fought and the ways in which she tried to keep all of us, as a huge family together, especially after my father died at 27 when I was 2 and a half. She had many faults, but the one thing none of us ever doubted was, her love of us.
She was one of my best friends. Someone I was able to tell my deepest darkest, most scary secret with and risk losing her, my family, to condemnation and yet, she simply opened her arms, hugged me close and showed me it was all going to be okay for me to be me.
That is all any of us truly wants, to be loved and accepted for who we are not what we are. I wish all kids were so accepted for who they are and not what they are. Then there would be far less teenage suicides because of it.
So yes, to me, for all her faults, my mother is, was and will always be, one of my imperfect heroes.