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Unsent Letter to Mother
Mother sits in her chair in her favorite position
and countenance. She ask me a question not said to
me before:
I get so tired of the crapt, son. Do you know
what’s it like?
In the back of my mind, I tried to push it in one
ear and out the other, but failed to do so. All I
could conjure up, as a response was a deep sigh
followed by a grunt.
She stares at me, and I could see her agony. Mother
is like a man of my size trying to bench three
hundred pounds. Her shoulders are still broad
despite the years of being the shoulder to cry on
for the rest of the world.
What amazes me is how she can hold them up so
straight and so proud even though I know just as
well that she is struggling with every passing
sunrise. Her eyes are still proud and glisten for
something better. If all the emotions she holds
were weighed in pounds, she would be in the
Genesis Book of World Records as the Strongest
Women. But she is not. My mother, who is forced to
care for the young and old, barely has the time to
give in to herself let alone the other important
things in her life.
It has taken me twenty-four years so see the
calluses on mother’s hands. I can only guess that
they are formed by the many years of opening
prescriptions for the elderly and jars of peanut
butter and jelly which my siblings and I loved.
Yet, when I look into my mother’s eyes as she
stares off into eternity, I can see something
divine in her.
You see, mother is an angel with no wings. Had she
had wings, she would have flown away from here to a
quiet place, where she could tend just to herself.
Unfortunately, she is bounded by the needs of
people twice her age and a baby boy not of her own.
The definition of the word, compassion, should be
changed to my mother, a women whose calluses and
hidden scars are swallowed by the compassion that
she shares with all who encounter her. Yes, the
definition should be changed for there is no other
mortal who can fulfill the duties of my mother. If
there is, then let her compare her shallow calluses
with my mother’s deep ones.
It’s strange that it has taken me twenty-three
years to see what my mother goes through on a
daily basis and appreciate all that she has done
and still does. I almost feel unworthy to her for
the things I said and did in retaliation with my
adolescence spirit. I often wondered if I made her
cry, but when she wasn’t looking as she tried to
find herself in the frustration, I would go
somewhere to a place that I could not be seen or
heard and softy cry to myself.
If there is one thing my mother has passed on to me
is the flaming compassion she carries. For how my
heart aches when I see love gone sour, or the
innocence of a child being taken away. And how it
beats in a steady, content rhythm when I see an
elderly couple holding hands in the park, or when I
see the glisten in a baby’s eyes. I hope to carry
this compassion for as long my mother has. In a
world that turns its back on others in need, I hope
for the ability to open my arms out, one for the
young and the other for the old just as my mother
has.
A dedication to all the mothers who have suffered
pain that I cannot ever endure.
by David Woods
Some Other Stories You Might Like To Read
A Mother's Day Story...Tell Mommy I Love Her
A Mother's Day Story...Mom's Are Human Too
