Today is Mothering Sunday in the UK and while I appreciate my mum every day, I decided to dedicate this post to her. She is a phenomenal woman. I admire all that she has achieved in life and I am so proud to call her mine. She’s amazing – no hyperbole, and I’m not the only one who sees it, see for yourself here.
The day these pictures were taken, I had her and this post in mind (as you’ll be able to tell at the end). I’ve had the first line of the poem below in my head for over a month and struggled to get what was in my head and my heart down on paper for fear of not doing her or the piece justice. I hope I succeeded.
Happy Mother’s Day mum.
I love you.
Faded Fault Lines
Sometimes, when I speak, my mother comes out.
Spontaneous cacophony I cannot control,
my trunk, encased in the fear of splintering your legacy,
coerced upright by transcendent heritage and pride;
tangible evidence that little brown girls fertilised by
faith, sacrifice, high expectations and love can
germinate into formidable forests, like you.
I am my mother’s daughter.
Effusive wisdom weeping from the walls of my mouth,
words regurgitated for hungry ears, you
are the lullaby I will never tire of singing,
the unhinged arms I will never exhaust faltering in to
when my shape-shifting confidence turns Judas,
seismic shifting fact from good judgment,
you cement my fault lines with truth.
Thank you for marrying a man who fair-traded
your heart and surname for his, for underpinning
our family foundation with scripture in preparation
for the nights when my stammering palms clatter,
reminiscent of strong, boiling pots with loose lids
and they struggle to embrace one another to pray.
for living boldly in your truth and teaching by doing,
for all that you are and all that I know you will be,
So, when the day eventually comes for you to go home
and I am left to eulogise your accolades,
there will be no metaphor sturdy enough to swaddle
my breaking heart but my centre will hold because
you built our foundation on scripture
and I am my mother’s daughter.
I will make mirrors of my eyes
for my children to see that their grandmother
was a gift
I never wanted to return, you mum,
are a gift,
that I never want to return.
© Assumpta Ozua 2015