Mother, You Can't Hear Me

Mother, You Can't Hear Me

Mother, you can't hear me,
         Dead these many years.
Oh, that I might ask you
         The sources of my tears.

I have searched within my heart
         For memories of you,
And come up lacking anything
         That I could say was true.

I was only eight years old
         The night you took your life -
Was it too much being mother,
         Along with being wife?

I just turned fifty-five this year,
         My senior-discount earned,
And from my sister Sally now
         Some horrid truths I've learned.

Your temperament and upbringing
         Were never really suited,
For raising kids, or loving kids,
         So YOUR kids were diluted.

I also learned that you'd had bouts,
         Including some Post-Partum;
You spent a summer locked away,
         In some sad, dark asylum.

Perhaps your mental illness helps
         Explain the reasons why,
It was your sister Helena
         Who taught me to stay dry.

And Sally had to spend third grade
         A hundred miles away,
A prisoner living with your dad,
         Resented every day.

Though having kids was bad for you,
         It didn't really mean,
That you should try aborting me
         By drinking kerosene.

We all have our problems;
         We all must learn to cope -
But never hearing "I love you"
         Can leave a child no hope.

I think we three deserve awards,
         Sally, Mary, Billy,
For growing up despite it all,
         Yet, we still miss you, really.