what i owe you, mother

Mama,

I’m sorry for the fire I kept setting between us in my adolescence.
For every slammed door, every word sharpened to wound. 
I think I confused your love for a cage, when really it was a lantern, swinging in the dark.

You deserved better than the storm I was becoming.

I worried you— God, I know I still do. 
And I’m sorry for every night you sat there, wide awake, praying I’d find my way. I’m sorry you even have to think that when I don’t get back to you, that I’m dead somewhere. 

Sorry I never let you rest.
I see now how soft your hands stayed, even while holding the weight of me.
I see how patient you tried to be, and still are – even as I pushed and pulled and broke.

I still lose my temper. Still spit out words I wish I could take back. 
Still reach for you in the wrong way—quick and jagged, like I don’t know how to be gentle.

But Mama, none of it is your fault.
Whatever made me this way… it didn’t start with you.
You were the balm. The lighthouse.

You were the one who stayed.

You are, and have always been, my best friend.
Even when I forget how to show it.
Even when I turn away.

And I love you—God, I love you—with a love that keeps my ribs from collapsing.
You live in every poem I write, every good thing I carry.
Maybe one day I’ll hand you this.
Maybe I won’t have to.
But either way, I needed to say it somewhere:

Thank you.

I’m sorry.

I love you more than I know how to say without crying before the words can even tumble out.

— your baby girl

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