A Rose for My Mother

I walk through a garden full of thorn and

sufferings,

pains,

bitterness,

hatred,

trying to find a rose for my mother.

I sometimes wonder

how can life offers so little and yet,

my mother can offer so much.

They should have given out medals for all mothers:

There's no argument against that, although I don't know who they are.

Perhaps they are the Gods and Goddesses that I seldom see;

or perhaps they are someone - anyone, really - who

has the power to stop the suffering of this world.

I walked through a garden full of thorn and

sufferings,

pains,

bitterness,

hatred,

yet there were no roses beautiful enough

to offer my mother as a present.

A present that not so much a thank you, but more of an apology.

Mother, I didn't mean to be born with mental illness, really -

and in the darkest of times, I wished I hadn't been born at all.

Yet the love in your eyes and the tears shine from your broken heart

pick me up and pull me through.

And father is as old

and broken as we all are.

Mother, I see you there,

your back to my face as you race through the sweltering street

just because you don't want to see me "sad" or

"depressed" or

whatever fancy terms people used to describe

this unfathomable melancholy.

I see you there as I walk through a garden full of thorn,

and mother, though there are no roses grown in these gardens,

I will build you a kingdom full of your favorite roses.

With these bare hands, I will use the rest of my life

and the next

and the next

and the next

forever on and on

to build you a garden full of roses

where the flowers bloom all seasons and the thorn -

yes, the thorns will always be there -

but they will cut me instead of you.