I tell myself to find her, in the old kitchen where she did so many dishes by hand. It had yellowish linoleum, dark wood, and doors which lead out to the front room and dining room. We sit at the ugly white table with the thin plasticky band of gold around its edge.
I run my finger along its long-gone edges as we drink something warm together.
I tell her she is beautiful, she has always been beautiful, even in those years she could not see it. I tell her I admire her courage and willingness to to be the bad mom. I tell her I have learned from her mistakes.
She would tell me something, surely, what is it?
In a house so full of sturm and drang, I want to hear her voice over the din of the little ones
She sat in a chain restaurant twenty years ago, this time of year, not knowing that she would forget her purse there so close the federal courthouse. Retrieve a purse; retrieve a child. Strange calculus of loss.
The Parable of the lost mother–
Waiting for the baby who does not remember who they once were together