In the weeks building up to this fake
Because I can’t feel it
I get twitchy.
I am not a mother
from a birth canal trip point of view.
My motherhood was stopped in its tracks
by a bad romance bad choice bad guy decision
And some breeze way furniture that my own mother
really needed at the time.
In the weeks coming up to the first weekend in May
With pink hearts and soft flannel advertising
I get itchy and scratchy and mean.
And the longing and loneliness I feel
Is not for the children I never had to call me mom,
But for my own mother
to own me as her now grown child.
And people will call me spiteful, and wilful and cruel.
The woman who lives, and is lonely and sad
Is my mother. Surely a kindness from me will soften everything
And make things rosy?
But, the Mothers’ Day restaurant offers, and special spa deals, and discount body cream sets, and floral printed soup mugs, and twenty roses delivered, and lacy underwear, and fluffy warm slippers, and tanzanite jewels (last year’s fashion on sale), and friendship rings and Lindt chocolates in re-purposed Valentine’s Day hearts
Make me sick.