The question of inheritance was stillĀ
in my thoughts when I noticed the foundation
had cracked. The color of the siding had gone,Ā
the roots of the ivy were set to pullĀ
off the shingles. Such a lonely house
it was. But then, hasnāt it always been, Mother?
I remember the day I stopped hugging you, Mother.Ā
You were always working, just wouldnāt stay still:
āThereās always something to do around a houseā.
I learned then that even a child could break foundations.
I had only meant to tug, I had only meant to pullĀ
on your apron strings but morning hugs were gone.Ā
Not long after, in the spring rain, I too was gone.Ā
A new house that wasnāt mine, a new motherĀ
on the horizon. This time I would smile and pull
out a new me, a better me, a quiet and still
me. For I bore willow roots that eroded foundations
and washed them all into sand. I was bad for houses.Ā
In time I would dig a plot to bury myself and house
my roots. Before the last of my youth had goneĀ
I believed you andĀ stopped building foundations.
One mother, two mother, many mothers, but you. Mother,Ā
I became you; raging, rushing, still.Ā
I wanted you to see me, your own reflecting pool.Ā
But the shingles slip underneath the ivy pull.Ā
I bore no witness when you left your house
for the ache of your absence was finally still,Ā
but the white-hot undertow had never gone.Ā
I could not look, I could not see the cracks in your foundation.
But why should I have? I had no need for mothers.
Even so, can I ask one question, Mother?
There are tides in my pond that push and pull!
Oh, there are cracks in my mud-silt foundation!Ā
Why had I not realized that a pond is still a house?
Mother, please, you must know how since you are gone:
tell me how to go back to being still.
