I do not air dirty Landry for the sake of just being mean. And you the reader are the only judge. I only ask as Jesus once did to a crowd of people so ready to cast their stones, to realize, we all have laundry that need the air and light of day to change that laundry and make it clean again and again.
My Mother is like any other woman in the planet. One who’s had her hard knocks and one who hides a past that haunts her because it been stuck in a closet.
My Own Mother is not dishonored by me stating the feelings I have about our passed. She was dishonored already. Long ago. And my truth does now dishonor her. My truth is like an opened window onto a room dark and lonely. My truth is like a breath of fresh air that blows into the heart of a woman who’s needed a walk in a garden filled with flowers and an arm to hold while she let down her hair and lightens her own load with me.
Oh!! I’d just love to take her to Ireland. And take her to the castle I walked with my own daughter not long ago. To eat together on the patio and walk the store fronts and feel the wool sweaters and listen to the people talking. I’d like to take her to a place named “Poppies” and to meet Mathew the wonder man who works there and drink tea with cream and eat cake with me. Back to a place were people know each other and times a bit slower. So she and I can truly enjoy each other’s company and she can reflect on what a daughter she gave birth to in such a dark place and time of her life and see what a thing she did with me.
The Ritz Carlton is there close by and next to that castle. And the shopping insane.
I’ve learned that every garden has a time of mourning when the plants and flowers wither and death is all around. I’ve also learned that with a lot of trimming and dragging away of the degree, in the spring? New life does begin to peek through the death and new life is alive again. Not truly dead just dormant needing warmth, water, and the sun to coax it to growth again.
Yes. I’m an incurable romanic. Conceived in a tornado of emotions and home grown, wild. My parents never had a chance because a baby got in their way. Conceived out of what the world seems to want to call rebellion and disobedience. But I grew up to come and and tell Mama, the world was wrong.
I was not mistake. I am not her mistake. I am her daughter. As full of love as ever. I have paid the price for her freedom. She will be free! My word is solid as I dig her roots from the long grave of lost hopes today. Like a 911, her heart in the rubble of a past that does not suit us now, I dirt frantically calling her name. Knowing inside my heart of hearts that her heart still beats.
Only longing for it to once beat again for me.
For my love has never died. It is impossible. It is my destiny to come home and give her this message of love. And teach her what love and redemptions really mean. To me.