I’m not a lover of cards. In fact I loathe them. Little demanders of time and obligation. They sit there demanding to be bought and written and sent as tokens of love.
And I don’t. I don’t send them, because they don’t mean anything to me. Particularly at set times of year. An arbitrary day to say “I love you”.
But I do like to tell people how I feel about them, and since it’s Mother’s Day in the U.K. I have done my usual and written my mum a poem.
My mother is one of my escape-valves. I know we all need them. Anytime I go anywhere I need to know that I can leave if I need to. I need to know I can get away.
My mother is bigger than that. She’s my life-escape-valve. I know that no matter what happens in my life, if ever I needed to run home, then I could. That’s no small thing, to have that trust. It’s kept me going through hard times. I could keep going forwards, because if I fell there would be someone to catch me.
So here is my Mother’s Day poem, just for you, mum. I love you even, when you’re late.
You’re an open, people-hugger,
I’m a peaceful, silent, stretch.
You’re an always-late hurrier,
I’m an early sort of wretch.
You’re an endless-task lover,
I’m a completable-project type.
You’re the sunbeams all a-beating
I’m the softness of moonlight.
A chalk and cheesy mother-daughter
Both far apart, and yet so near.
Not the same, yet full of sameness
I’m glad you’re mine, my mother, dear.