Finding Ruth

                       for my mother

​

To this Daddy’s girl, your housewife life seems easy

and bland. I push against your emotional distance

with wounding words. Followed by a tearful retreat.

My needs unfed from your empty cup. I could not

read the pervasive sadness that colors your existence.

Years later I see this in my mirror.

 

I slept my life away you whisper. A widow with a young

son. No money or marketable skills. A divorced man

raising a daughter offers stability. No one smiles in the

wedding photo. Crying babies, sulky teens, and a husband

who shouts. Overwhelmed and afraid to leave. Cancer

your only escape. Eight weeks from diagnosis to death.

 

My own struggles as a wife and mother bring to light

your kindness to granny, your gentleness in adversity,

your delight in my daughter as she watches you mend

a hole in Teddy’s tummy. Once, when I was sobbing

you called me honey bubbler. A rare note of affection.

 

Decades later similarities surface. Tender memories soothe

raw edges of restless nights. Forgiveness finds love healing

the broken places of an unfavored middle child. Your recipes

grace my table. Your beaky nose on my face becomes a gift.

Hurts fade like soap in a dish. Long after your death, I

embrace Ruth — the name we both wear.