It is easy to believe you never loved me when I think of my childhood and all the moments someone else's hands held me--easier still during the holidays when memories pull me back through the folds of time.
* * *
It is Mother's Day, and I am sitting in a classroom full of small desks and cubbies where classmates cut construction paper, bend over bins of crayons, and write love poems to their mothers. I stare hard at their cards as tears cook the backs of my eyes. I have nothing to say that feels true. Even the heart I've cut is a lie. When I think of you, I smell the rush of your perfume, feel your lips brush my sleeping cheek on your way out the door or back through it. How can I thank you for leaving me? Or for coming home only when I'm asleep? Is it enough for you to be close when I dream?
