Your Life’s Work

You made me a card for my birthday. It was a painting created from a picture of us, but only I made it to the card. The arm that was slung around your back in the photo was now just suspended in air, creating a clumsy ballerina type pose. You didn’t put yourself in it. Just me. Alone. And I’m reaching for someone who didn’t want to be in the picture anymore. Who cut herself out. Just me, still looking for somewhere to put my arms, for someone to hold on to. You said I always asked for too much. I managed to grab onto you for a second in the photo, but what you created from it left me alone. You escaped my grasping, desperate hands. You recreated the image of us into an image of me, alone. Your magnum opus, your life’s work, has always been to escape these desperate hands. And I have always been reaching for air. I take my arm and recreate the pose. I take down the clumsy stretch that once held onto my mother and I put it across myself, creating an embrace. I hug myself as I cry, hug myself until I transform. I was once a daughter. But now I am my own mother, holding myself as I heal from your life’s work. Thanks for the card mum.