Better had you called her Mother, For mother she was before you stole Her every waking moment with your needs. She never minded the change that goes with: I need water, cookies, a story. I need soothing, aspirin, a cold pack. I have a broken dolly, truck, fix it, Someone hurt me, pushed me, my knee... My broken heart, my bank balance. My lost friend, my best friend gone, I'm alone. You were never alone, not you. She hovered over you even when you refused to see. Still she held you and gave you worth, forgiveness. Counsel given you, and some of hers from a lengthy speech You remember. You lust for more, but lack the patience Of saints from world's dust covered and ash filled. Mother finds a way, always she finds a way. My friends have, my sister has, my brother took. Return it, all of it to her, give her the life That she thought she would have, but you changed. She gave her all away, every drop: tears, smiles, cries. Still she sets the table, waiting for a call, a note. Cooks for your empty spot, carefully decorated table, Leaves a napkin to blot your lips or brow, a post card. Folded on the table, she keeps her dreams for you, The funds she gathered in pennies, for ice cream, notebooks... She gave you her dreamscapes to bear with you, Lush beautiful realms of the mind. Freedom. In place of your sorrow, a breeze for gladness. She healed you, scolded you, taught you, Worked to learn the math both new and old, So you could explain the new world to her. Mother, better had you called her Mother, Before she was labeled Martyr, as willingly You took away her smiles of you, to leave her Eyes in tears and heart in two.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/martyr/
Ann WJ White 