On Mothers

Maybe some people are born to have two mothers. For some unknown reason. Some silent quiet reason none of us may ever know. The same reason that some us have the gift. The. Gift. That special unexplainable silent knowing gift. The wisdom of knowing things that are not said. The gift of the wisdom of the mind and the soul and the universe existing as one. The gift of a few. Yes, the gift Susan spoke of. My old true wise friend. Mi amiga especial. 

Maybe that reason is the very reason why I have two mothers. Yes. Maybe that is the same quiet reason for it. Maybe and maybe not. I do not know for certain but I do I think so. Feel so. I have the gift and it is known. People around spill their minds and the darkest deepest parts of their shredded selves to me without prompt. This has happened always. From the start. I know it. I have known it in my heart since before I could assign words to it and before I can remember. "There are those who know the things that are not said."

I also have two mothers. One who bore me. One who raised me in teenage turmoil and tough trails, in moody angst and impatience. One who listened to me complain, who smelled the pot I smoked, saw the trials and tribulations of my perfectly scraggled pointy-edged, in the lines youth. Then I have another one. One who came into my life. My adult life. My other mother. The one who knows me and does not get scared of me and hugs me the same. The other mother from the other place with the bangs and blonde highlights and loving eyes. Yes this is the other mother who helped bring me back from the dead to the living. Who hugged me and yelled at me and hugged me again through eyeliner less, emotional and emotionless days. Flat days, bumpy days, swollen eyes and raging ambivalence. The oxymoron there is intentional, never fear. The other mother with patience and caring intonation in her east coast voice the same. My use of the word “patient” throughout this streaming river of conscience is also not lost. Intentionally unintentional as they or we or I say.

I am lucky. I have a mother in my blood and a mother in my bones. Mothers and Figures. Curvy figures and straight ones. Figures of circles. Mother. Figure. A word that has been intentionally lacking to this point. It has been present, though, in the reality realm but not in the realm of the heart. I write from the truth of my heart rather than from the truth of the facts. And so I write to this point with the intentional absence of that one medium sized word. Mother. Mother figure. Figure. I have a mother and I have a therapist but both are moms just the same. I am a lucky girl. Lucky human. Woman. Thank you DC/MK, for both being and in my life, in the dark and the light and consistently in my heart. Siempre en mi corazon. 

Amor y vida.