I have been thinking about the path of my blog. I ask all of my clients that they put themselves on the line and allow their hearts to open. I, too, must do the same. I am approaching the dawning of my daughter’s 18th birthday and high school graduation. With this, a flurry of feelings is coursing through me. I chose to express my deepest self, the part of me that is a mother, with you. May this inspire you to be open with your hearts as well.
The first day of the Rodney King riots.
My city alight with 4,000 fires
phone lines down, sirens blaring.
Me grunting with each contraction, at home
awaiting your arrival.
I knew you before I conceived you.
I dreamed you were coming.
I dreamed your name.
Kiev, Russia, from where much of my family hails.
Eva, my beloved mother’s name.
Six weeks before you were conceived,
I knew you were coming.
Fair like my mother.
Freckled like my father’s aunts
a shock of dark hair.
I feared we would go down with those fires
that we might not live to know each other.
Kieva, born to a father who left me pregnant.
Born to legal battles over custody and visitation.
Born to my broken heart of what could have been
You were observant, quiet and sensible.
Your reasonable thinking
paired with my whimsy.
We were inseparable those first few years.
I wanted to give you the world
all that was beautiful and secure.
Together we summoned Joshua from the ethers
to call you his own
to step in as your daddy.
His dark hair like yours
His big brown eyes
an imprint of you.
We grew together as family.
But life was never easy for you.
Disappointments were magnified
Until your life with us was unmanageable.
As a family, we made the sacrifice.
Sent you across country
where life was more precious, the pace slower.
My heart, hacked out of its cage
the remaining cavity with nothing to fill it.
The emptiness unbearable.
I missed your first date, dressing for the prom
Holding you when you cried from life’s injustices.
That time, never recaptured.
Gone for good.
Your 18th birthday and high school graduation dawn.
My baby-my woman child.
How the years have forced me
to unsink my claws from your flesh
to wrest my tangled dreams from your hair
To free you from my hopes for you.
Letting go has been brutal.
It sears like the Sahara sun on my northerly skin,
with each blister, the promise of insight.
Oh how wisdom hurts at times.
Oh, how it hurts.