Maternal Bonds

I believe I am, by nature, as romantic as a nail gun. My shows of expected appreciation, e.g. Mother's Day, are typically more pointed than than my displays of anger. Platitudes are a skill set which is neither natural to me, nor interesting enough to merit the hard work of learning. Girl howdy, the Cosmos have sent me hard, hard lessons on that stubborn streak. . . My head fills with a blockage that feels ready to burst when I attempt to find words for that platitudinous ^it^. There are quite allot of subtle pulses which ride in a simple, "Good Morning." Those subtle pulses are what connect us to each other and beyond into the infinity of life.

ES is planning to return to Texas this morning. There has been virtually no conversation between us in his week here. I have babbled attempts to conversate, but no dialog ever developed. Just nervous, one-sided babble streams, answered with a silent return to the cot where he has spent most of the week. Business as usual. Read my mind.

Is it possible to look at this 37 year old man and not have flashbacks to the first time I was allowed to hold my premature baby after a week in intensive care? Or the times . . . and the times. . . then the one time. . . and that other time. . .

Earth to Granny. . . Earth to Granny. . . The stove is on fire. . . Here and now. . .

The mysteries of the maternal bonds have been a frequent visitor from the phantom limb syndrome of my own family estrangement. The itches and pains from the missing limb get downright freakish during psychosis, but I have had 40 years and allot of therapy support to build a coping arsenal.

The mysteries of the maternal bonds unfolding before me in the form of the not-so-young son sitting stoically (judgementally?) in my new life havenae responded well to the coping mechanisms I used on the other maternal bond in my life. Nor do any of the youthful ideals I plied to doing it better look as clearly superior as they did in psychobabbled theory.

Dunno. . . Letting God lead the dance. . . Not sure the dance will ever end. Do I want it to?

Silent you stand, on the edge of my sight

No words do you speak to explain your great sight

The further you stand, the closer you stay

The less that you speak, the more that you say