Dear Mother,

Nibbling on her pen she struggled with the term “Mother,”  having given birth would make her “Mother”, she reasoned.

You must have suffered terribly making the choice to give away your child.

That was the adult in her trying to be reasonable, trying to understand; all the while the child inside cried out in pain.  She felt like a possession, a doll or a toy,  so easily discarded.

There was a pound of selfishness, wanting something that seemed so far from her grasp.

Now she was an adult with children of her own. After giving birth to her first child, her heart was breaking, the selfish self wanted the “other Mother” to know, how beautiful the newborn was.

 Five years later, a son, and selfish self reared its ugly head again, once more marring an otherwise perfect milestone.

There was so much she had wanted to tell the “other Mother” so much she had wanted to share. She was only getting older, the fear of  transience growing with every passing year.

When the last child was born, the absence of the “other Mother” weighed heaviest. Time would not stand still, the desperation seemed so overwhelming. There were so many questions with no answers.

Time was suppose to heal all wounds, yet it remained such an elusive concept.

Was every birthday a silent tribute, never far from the “other Mother’s” thoughts.  Was she haunted by choices she had made?

Dropping the pen to the desk top, the woman wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to stem the flow of overwhelming desolation coursing through her.

The shadows in the room lengthened as the stillness of twilight began to descend.  Slowly she  put pen to paper once more.

It had been a bittersweet day for her, finding out she herself was going to be a grandmother;  joy and pride occupying the same body as the crippling betrayal.

The knowledge that “other Mother” died.

And so it was too late.

There would never be that first hello, and no final goodbye. There was no happily ever after.

“Dad” and “Mum” imparted a bomb shell, and yet they had still encouraged her search.

She didn’t want  let them know how much they had wounded her, guilty by omission.

No further information as to how they had knew because “It was not important.”

Not Important? Not important to who? anger came through the pen manifesting itself in words.

The years of crippling anguish, now it was too late, all that remained were pen, paper and words, the hope of absolution.

With pen poised about the paper, her hand trembled.

She had had a wonderful childhood; loved and cherished, “Mum” was and always would be  her biggest advocate, while everyone else doubted, “Mum” quietly encouraged and was always there in spite of all the pain she brought to her “Mum’s” life, yet another paradigm of selflessness so prevalent in her life..

With this epiphany tears fell, marring the perfectly formed letters on the pages before her.  Pushing away from the desk, she stood facing the open window, blind to the miraculous oranges and reds of the setting sun .

Silently she thanked the “other Mother” for the selfless decision she had made, a choice she herself could not fathom having to make.

She watched  motionless as a gust of wind carried the pages through the window borne on the wings of  angels.

A cleansing sigh, and with a smile curling around her lips she blew a kiss to the wind that carried her pain to places unknown, finally finding peace.