Mother’s Day Blues And Pinks

My Heart Could Turn This Whole Lake Blue

My cracked crumbling heart that’s been delapidated and falling to pieces for two decades. It’s about my kids.
Their father permanently spirited my two oldest daughters away to Mexico. They were two and four. So, they didn’t get to have a mother.
My youngest daughter is with me, but she’s with out her father or sisters.
That was after my baby son died. So, he’s okay. But I was never quite.

And here I was year after year trying to compensate for all the love, attention and things, this, my one kid left, has been missing out on. While at the same time, I’ve consistently missed my exiled daughters. Then, of course, there’s that ache where a baby is suppose to be. That doesn’t improve matters.

It’s twenty years later. My two Mexico girls grew up. Without me.
We got in touch, after all these years. They are okay. However, they’re totally convinced that I abandoned them. So, all the abandonment, loneliness, and other miseries they suffered are totally my fault. Every bit of it. I won’t go into just how totally innocent their father is right now.
For my part. Rather than helping this, my one kid left, to focus on growing strong, overcoming, and going after what she needs and and doesn’t have, I focused on protecting her. So, I am pretty responsible for some of the stuff she blames me for.

So, right now, only my son isn’t pissed at me for Mother’s Day.

Now that I recognize my same-old-crap behavior patterns from my shitty-old-relationship, I notice that my kids are on the same direct course to where I’ve been.
It’s terrifying to witness.
Do I regret my life?
They probably won’t regret theirs either.

So why not just be happy?




We are going. I’m tramping back and forth squealing through the hall and kitchen I’m so happy. It smells bad in here. Something about beans burning. I don’t know what that bad smell is.  Yuck beans. So I don’t care, but it feels all upset in here too. I don’t like it.  I race away through the open door into the front yard. The station wagon we are going in is open. I clamber in. We are going!

The big people are carrying things from the house to the car. I sit in the car waiting for it to start moving. It’s supposed to move. I’m ready to go. I didn’t even need to be carried in here. I wait. No one is sitting in the car with me. I hop out and tramp the long way across the yard to the house then back inside, then because I can’t wait to be going, I walk all the way back to the car and get back in. I want the car to start going. I shout bye bye!

No one answers. I sit there wondering why the car is not moving. Its supposed to move. Looking out the windows is not interesting this way.

I’m bored. People bring more stuff to the car, but no one gets in with me or and we don’t start going.

So I wander back into the house into mom’s room to watch her getting ready.

Then,  I wake up.

It’s quiet.

I have woken up on the road in a car before. This is not that. Maybe we are already there. I look around. I’m in the same boring place.

I’m alone.

I shout mommy.

No one comes.

I cry. No answer.

I wait and wait. No one is going or coming.

I know what to do. I can reach up to one of those things. The door will open and everyone will be at the other side when I open it. I try. Raising my arms my highest I jump crying with frustration, but can’t reach the door opener thing.

That crying gets me what I want stands till I realize it’s not working. After that I cry for comfort. After that I cry because I can’t help it.

I wake up again. This time everything aches, no one is here, my eyes and head pound. I’m wet cold and I can’t climb up onto the bed. It’s too far up. The floor is cold.

The best thing to do is cry. So I cry. The harder I cry the more my head pounds. I notice this. I cry because my head pounds but crying makes it pound more. So, I stop. Stopping makes me want to scream. I try it. I feel like my had will split. Hiccups hurt. I’m too tired to whimper.

I stop and wonder. Why is no one here? I realize it. No one will ever come again. No one cares.

I wake up. It’s dark. Whimpering hurts my head. I will never trust anyone again.

I wake up. Mom is snuggling me. Something is different. I have never had all her attention before. But I don’t trust her.
She sings Sweet Hour of Prayer to God looking right at me. She sings to me looking right at God. God mom and me. I’ve never felt this. I snuggle closer. Maybe I can trust her.

I  get closer by climbing right on top of her belly.

Not up here love. Don’t sit up here. Sit right over here or you might hurt the baby.

I look intently at mom. I won’t get hurt. I won’t fall.

Not you. The baby in here.

The baby is in here. I look at myself. Then look at her pointing.

This baby. In here.

I don’t see any other baby.

You can’t see it yet. It has to come out first.

What baby? Where?

It’s in here. Right here.

I stare and feel confused.

In here there is a baby. You don’t want to sit on it and hurt it do you?

I shake my head then look closer at my mother’s belly and still don’t see any baby.

Get it out.

You can’t get it out. It comes out when it’s ready.

Why not?

It’s not ready yet.

It’s inside you? How does it get out?

A door opens in my stomach and it comes out.

I look all over under her blouse for that door.

What door?

She lifts her blouse. Here. It only opens for babies to come out.

I look for the opener thing. There is no opener.

Does it hurt?


I stare at the smooth skin on my mothers belly. A door. A door here.

How does it open?

I cannot imagine an opening. When my skin cuts open it hurts.

It opens by itself then closes by itself.


I don’t know. It just happens.

The mystery of this completely overwhelms my imagination. I stare at my mothers mysterious belly till she pulls me to her and snuggles me closer next to where the invisible baby is. She glows with delight, and something else I don’t understand but I feel she feels  about me and the baby. That’s when wonder sparks.

I’m a baby. I’m the baby.

Mommy how did the baby get in your tummy? And why are you worshipful about an invisible baby when you already have a baby?

I didn’t know how to ask my mom these questions. I didn’t have the words. The asking grew and grew till it filled my being like mixing baking soda and vinegar. It asked itself. My entire body entwined in wonder. I could feel my mother’s ecstasy, that she loved me and was not replacing me with another baby. What then made her so happy about the baby started to fill my being. I feel what she feels. A whole in the sky with a triangle of light shining out of it between her and a man. They created this big hole in something and drew this baby through it.


She glows with the memory, the knowing. I feel her memories her certainty fills me up. Her memories fill me up with angel song. I’m totally content with my clear and wonderful answer.

So that’s why mom is so happy. I feel her delight and triumph. I can feel the wonderful beaming off of her. We are enraptured.

Mystery solved for baby me.

Mystery still for grown up me .




My Origin Story-“Hate”

“I don’t understand hate.”
“I will never understand hate.”
“Yeah me either.”
“Just don’t get how people can hurt other people”.

I found this deadly conversation on Facebook by artists authors thought leaders the ones who are entrusted to know better. Sadly our short collective memory blanks out how very close to yesterday back in our church days if you were one of many of the popular American religions you were taught to believe homosexuality led to Sodom and Gomorrah being destroyed. A whole two cities devoured by holy flalmes for tolerating that abomination.

It’s all interpreted right there in both Christina and Muslim religion’s holy writings. So, it’s something way different from the catch-all phrase “hate” that is causing so much pain and death discrimination and hurt.

For a minister at least one in this case the one in California to stand up and celebrate someone finally doing God’s will is pretty natural. It’s part of being “right”.
I’m reminding myself that my ancestors and my culture up till now have been violent. We wage justified wars that are still going on. We lynched black folks and have disrespected and rejected “sodomites” for centuries now.

Not long ago it was legit to kill Catholics then in turn Protestants for being Catholic or being Protestant then both killing Muslims. I’m pretty sure my ancestors being faithful and devout men and woman participated in all the holy killings back then because they continued right up to very close to the present being devout and holy killers. Being faithful and devout myself, I thought the “right” half of that crap was all good.

Holy killings. Fighting for whats right. Soldiers for freedom. We still do it. At least we can do is admit we do understand “hate”. That we are it. Whatever that word has come to mean. We do it. We have been doing it together.

I have. I understand “hate”. I have lived and continue to live hate.

Now I just wonder what I can do about it.

Wonder with me.







It stings so I tug at it to get it off. Wailing and whimpering I reach down grab hold of it. It feels like a cat clinging to my butt so I’m trying to shove it down and off, but something feels ominous about doing this. When I do this, meanness happens.

I look up and No is open. I wonder through distracted from the ouch.

It feels good out here. I get to shake the heavy naughty thing off here since no one will stop me or be mad at me anymore. Sucking in and taking small wiggle steps works. It falls to my feet and trips me. The ground comes at me. Wiggling it off my ankles feels better than crying. I get back up. My hands and knees don’t hurt. I don’t cry. No one will come stop me and the ground feels good.

Softness tickles my feet. To wiggle my toes here feels good. I’m feeling relief all over. Then I look around. I’ve never been here before. I don’t know the word for freedom. It just tastes good.

I look far away over the soft and see the hard place. Then across it to a place where nice people will be. The place over there where they will be nice to me. They will be nice to me. I’m going there and never coming back.

When I come to the hard knee hurting place my hands and knees tingle recalling the last time I tried to get away and fell on hard bumpy rocks tripped by holes. This one is smooth dark and shiny.

It won’t trip me. I stand there stareing at it wondering. I won’t fall on the rocks and step in holes burned into my body’s mind from last time I tryed this. I decide. This time I’ll run quick careful without getting hurt.  Like when I fell just now and it didn’t hurt. This won’t hurt again. Just cross to over there and and never come back.

I wait for a big noise thing that’s coming to go away.  I’m waiting for it. This big noise thing is a light for some reason. It’s taking longer than these take to come and go. It’s not going. The light is here.

It stops. It’s not supposed to stop. This is confusing but I’m going ahead.

Now people are here. But I’m still on my way to the nice people. They talk to me but I tell them I know where I’m going. Then a lady holds out a yummy sounding bag to me. I take some of wht’s in it. It’s good. I try to get more. She moves back so I follow her.

She seems like a nice one. So, I don’t have to go over that hard thing after all. The nice people are here.

I try to tell them they are nice people so I’m coming with them. I know they are nice because they have food they don’t make me do stuff and they are not cross.

Just as I start eating, the mean ones come. They snatch the bag away and give it back to the nice ones.

I protest with all my might. Screams struggles kicks don’t help. I grab for the bag, then when  it’s out of reach make a  break for the real nice people.

The mean people catch me and hold me against my will. Then they carry me off back to the mean place.

I’m doomed.

Then, suddenly the mean ones talk nice to me and snuggle me.

So I fall asleep hungry, and content.



Memory, this strange invisible time travel organ transports me back to forbidden moments, times I shouldn’t even have access to. For good reason too since who wants to remember how your diaper feels and smells when it needs changing. Since I do remember my annoying itchy stinging clinging sticky diaper I figure when I remember where I came from before the diaper days it may have some merit.

A blank slated innocent new perfect baby might be the case sometimes, but not mine. I didn’t enter the world a blank slate. Well maybe a bit blank in some necessary spots but mostly I came stained with karma or whatever, you know stuff I wanted to do stuff I wanted to learn and stuff I wanted to fix plus I wanted some new tree rings and bragging rights. I remember. Not the place, I don’t remember a place. It’s the urgency that fades back in. The vast sence sometimes of how far back this goes, this desire to understand to care, how deeply I wanted this and for how long. Lots of stinky diapers are a small price to pay to play. Remembering one though sucks. I remember two.



Chance Encounter

I entered the world at the butthole end of a saga conceived in Ensenada Jail despised and feared before I was born, while not being a boy was a letdown to my parents. I remember coming home from the hospital though for some reason. I wasn’t all bad even being a girl and my father in jail. Being a girl when good men were so desperately needed in our world was unblessed. Men were needed like my father for what in my mother’s mind was the future, survival the greater good her purpose. But Fluffy didn’t care.

Fluffy, he must have been waiting for me cuz I don’t actually remember coming home from the hospital I just remember being welcomed home. A sudden fast excited warm wet smoochy welcome. Someone was ecstatic to see me. Happy. Happy. Happy. With every lick You’re here! You’re here! You’re here! Lick lick lick. I couldn’t breath so I cried and couldn’t cry with no air, but the warm breath and wet wet warm sticky licks all over my face in my face filled my chest with joy. I was filled with the feeling of welcome welcome! Woof woof! while not being able to breath and lots of bounciness.
That’s all I remember vividly and nothing else till I’m two or so with a saggy diaper.

My sister Tosh remembers though. She remembers. We used to have a dog. Then you came along and ruined everything.