Looking through the windshield,
I gaze my mother's hands
resting atop the steering wheel,
attached to me.
And mournful bliss straddles me
in this instance of recognition.
What feelings seeped her being when cancer clung to her breast,
leading to more extreme treatments
than saddled me?
Did fear stun her into subservience to nurses and doctors and technology buzzing around ears
as it did me?
Did doubts of decisions affecting her children bathe her spirit in cold sweat of guilt
as they did me?
Did reconsideration evaporate her mind and shackle her to silent screams within moments of indecision
as it did me?
Did the possibility of re-occurrence stalk her presence in weightless embrace?
Or was she convinced of its defeat before its center-stage performance blew out the pit of her heart?
To this day, I battle the truth of its defeat
in repeated reminders
that I've confronted my guilt over blasted inability to nourish my children
during attacks on the home front.
To this day, their forgiveness has eased my mind,
wrapped in tender disbelief,
as soul-baring sorrow seeped the ground of my heart.
And yet, I wonder, is it enough?
The instant I see my hands as hers
I comprehend
the anguish that caused her illness
within the silence that kept her secret.
And I console my heart with love for her,
acknowledging her love for me
knowing
without a doubt
that her steps paved my way
onto another ground,
onto a different outcome
for my children and me.
And I smile into the darkness
as I blow her a kiss.
(c) 2018 Iris B. Struller