Mo(u)rning

I'd like to make a poem

About the mo(u)rning,

But I'm not sure what it's about.

Something about mothers, children, and fathers,

And the burdens we carry when we choose to love.

The simple stress of caring for someone else,

Someone outside of yourself,

Whom you cannot control,

No matter how much you wish you could.

I am not a mother myself but I have imagined my own motherhood since I was a little girl.

We all have.

We played with dollies and tucked them into bed

Each and every night.

We had stuffies and plushies

Who were perfect companions.

We gave up our dolls and took up soccer balls, trumpets, standardized tests,

Lessons and teams and practices.

Graduating from toys to books,

Clutching tomes to our chests in our beds,

Falling asleep dreaming of

Adventure

Romance

Mystery.

Whatever our hearts desired.

Now I am sick when I do not see my children.

When I'm not chasing my dreams,

I stagnate.

My spirit revolts.

I was not raised to sit back and let the mothering be done.

It isn't my fault our culture instills these tendencies,

And it's not anyone else's fault either.

It is human nature.

How could I blame myself or anyone else,

For this utter tragedy

That is sometimes only seen and heard of as:

The beginning of a new day.