Was it you who brought me to this place,
my first and only home?
The world that you inhabited,
my cradle, flesh and bone?
I think that it was you, at least,
I know you stroked my hair.
You held me in your mother’s arms
and bundled me with care.
I’m not a child anymore.
I think that I have grown,
but I still muffle child’s tears
and ache into the phone:
“Mother, don’t you care for me,
your first and oldest son?
I worked and lied and always tried
to be your special one.
How can you go and do these things?
What purpose can they serve
but cut and tear and break my heart
and tip the cradle curve?”
That man is not our family,
his world, his home, not mine.
A marriage rent and money spent,
dishonesty and lies.
I hope that I can break your heart
and leave you to your ways.
I can’t forget, I won’t forgive,
I damn your mother’s gaze.
My heart is not so hard as that.
You gave me many things,
so I will try to fight the urge
to cut the thinning strings.
But I need help. I’m still a child
in certain, needing ways.
I can’t forget, I will forgive
if you can kill this craze.
You’ve lost what was, my home is changed;
It cannot be the same.
But find the mother who I love
and see that she will stay,
and I will break, and mark the date,
and call it Mother’s day.