Mama, Autumn Comes

Author’s note: I don’t usually do this before my poems, but I think I feel up to giving you a little background for this one. My mother is 42 years old, a grandmother, and a recent divorcee of an abusive relationship, one in which she had affairs in…again. Her second marriage ended because of her having an affair as well. Rather than spending a few years off men like I’m begging her too (because she has a bad habit of picking up men from bars), she’s out, only a month out of her divorce, desperately looking for dates and men to verify her self worth and keeping it secret from me because she knows I don’t approve; like she’s the teenager and I’m the mother. It’s tearing me up and frustrating me because I am tired of watching her suffer just because she’s…*sigh*…she’s her.

But it’s because she’s her that the best thing I can do is keep my mouth shut and just hope for the best.

 

Mama,
there is no easy path
to ride into your
Indian summers.
Autumn is upon you now
but you stoutly refuse
to put on your coat
or stop swimming
in the ocean.
Storms may come,
but you insist
you can mold any wave
with your spirit
that still sees itself
riding mustangs
in the desert,
where no ocean dares
to touch.

But that won’t change
that I’m still on shore,
screaming over the waves
you carelessly kicked your way to;
screaming of dropping leaves,
graying skies,
dooming white caps.
I’m just your daughter,
so to you, it isn’t my place
to give warning.
The Indian within you
knows better.

But still,
Autumn comes.

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