The Mothers

(My mother, LoRaine, held by her mother, Ruth. Missoula, Montana, 1921.)

The Mothers by Cheryl Strayed

There are so many kinds of mother. The mothers you cherish and celebrate. The mothers who were never really there. The mothers who broke you. Who built you. The mothers who cheered you on. Who chipped away at you until you were dust. The mothers who reveled in your astonishing intelligence and grace and power. Who saw only their own light. The mothers who died painfully young. The mothers who lived so long you felt yourself disintegrating with them. Petal by wilted petal. The mothers who shined. Who dimmed. Who did their best. Who disappointed. Who redeemed themselves. Who accepted your redemption. Who zigged and zagged. The mothers who were a beacon. The mothers you never knew. The mothers who sewed themselves into the quilt you became. The mothers who couldn’t bear to tell the truth. The mothers who were brave. The mothers who didn’t know who they were without you. Who never saw you no matter how wildly you waved. The mothers who grieved you. Who believed in you. The mothers you call. The mothers you no longer speak to. The mothers you take for granted. Or treasure. The dead mothers. The mothers you have to search for and carry. The mothers you find in people who are not your mother. The mothers like a limb. The mothers like a mirror. The mothers like a flame. The mothers you wish. The mothers you love. The mothers you ache. The mothers you echo. The mothers you aren’t. The mothers you wanted to be. The mothers you became. I am thinking of you. I am holding you all.

xCheryl