Nothing I ever did was good enough.
You wanted me to get good grades,
but I could always do better.

You wanted to play piano,
so I got lessons.
I watched you play the phantom piano,
your fingers flying over the invisible keys.
The trophies were yours. They meant nothing to me.
The music in my soul was locked away.

You told me that men want women for three things:
a nice home, children and sex.
You made me believe I was worth nothing
more than that.

Where was your soul hiding?
Which drawer did you file your dreams in?
We payed for your disappointments,
every day.

How deep did you stuff your passion?
Past your heart…into your womb?
I think you locked it in the empty space,
where we once were.

You told me you didn’t like children,
but Dad wanted a son.
Since I was first-born, you had to have another.
I paid dearly for having been born a girl.

You taught me to be dependant.
You didn’t have the strength or courage
to stand up against him.
You didn’t value yourself as a person.
You were living a hollow life.

When dad was dying, you were terrified
of making decisions on your own.
I think you were afraid to see
what you had been missing in life.

So the cancer ate you up, too.
It devoured you, from your soul, outwards.
It’s not that you couldn’t live without him,
but that you couldn’t live with yourself.

I could have forgiven you.
An acknowledgment, an apology,
would have gone a long way
to repairing the bridge of our relationship.

I loved you,
even when I hated you.
You betrayed me, but we could have started over.
You didn’t have to die…

He had such control over you,
that you’d rather go with him,
than to stay with us.
It stings every day–we weren’t enough.

Life is too precious.
Children and grandchildren are worth fighting for.
I won’t make the same mistake.

Hittnau, Switzerland, 1963

3 thoughts on “Mom

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