the other child
if my grief for my mother were a child, it would be grown.
it could sign a contract, or be drafted into war.
it could place its very own i.d. down on a bar and be served.
it could vote
if it wanted to vote.
if grief were allowed a vote.
...
my grief for my mother is younger than my children
though not by much.
it was the other child in our home.
it was there at bedtime and at meal time and driving to school.
it held our hands as we walked to the park
and turned the pages of our picture books.
it stitched along with us as we sewed dresses,
and then later, more dresses.
it sat beside us as we learned to shave, as we waited in waiting rooms,
as we told every story we ever told.
it opened presents, wrapped presents, sang songs, stayed silent, cleaned up, fell ill, tried harder, gave up, kept going, found meaning, lost hope, went out, came home.
it mourned when we mourned.
it mourned when we laughed.
we laughed when we mourned.
...
my grief for my mother grew with my children.
it grew with me, as i grew into myself.
i raised it as my own, with my own.
what else could i have done with it?
it wasn't ready yet, to be without me.
so i kept it close
and let it grow
and let it change
and listened when it needed me to
and gave it space when it needed me to
so it could become what it needed to become.
...
my grief for my mother has been old enough for years to come and go.
i don't always know where it goes when it's not at home.
but that's okay.
i know it has a life of its own.
and still there is a part of me
which listens for its voice at the door
and sees a shadow of it in every room.
i am turned to it, tuned to it,
tuned by it.
i will always await it.
i will welcome it, listen to it,
attend to it,
whenever it needs me,
whenever it returns to me,
regardless of how old it grows.
— September 20, 2025
#insteadOfFlowers #poem #poetry #grief #mourning #death #maternalDeath
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