The little beach fairy who made me a mama.
And her grandmother, the woman who made me.
My parents came to visit this weekend, and I’m so grateful I got to spend Mother’s Day with my mom. My dad starts his cancer treatment this week, and it’ll be a while before we’re all together again, so I’m especially glad we got to make these memories. Every day counts, y’all, and every moment is special.
I am the sum of all the best parts
of my mom.
I share her two-toned eyes and her thick hair.
She taught me poems
and kindness,
and she chose a good man to be my dad.
I am a reflection of her heart,
a collection of her dreams –
all the love and all the things she wants but never had.
She gave those things to me.
Watching your little girl play so carefree,
you think one day
I hope I can be
just like that.
But once upon a time you
were already a child too,
twirling and dancing under a twilight sky,
reaching for a mother’s steady hand
and knowing it would be there.
It hits you right where you stand:
Your time hasn’t gone.
It’s just moved on,
come full circle like the bright pink moon.
And like the moon,
it will turn again soon.
The well will never run dry
of daughters made mothers,
of mothers and daughters and the love they share,
heavy as a whole heart and light as air.
Here’s good:
There is something so surreal and so absolutely,
achingly,
magically,
transcendently beautiful
about watching my mama rock
her granddaughter – my daughter – to sleep.
My heart can barely hold it.
And I know:
It’s not the wars that will keep us safe,
that will keep us going.
It’s the women.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 