Remembering My Mother on Mother's Day With A Poem

Mother's Day is always a difficult holiday for me. As with many people my age, I buried my mother a number of years ago. So this day that celebrates mothers can be tough. 
I find it especially difficult because my mother and I did not have a good relationship for the majority of my life, especially near the end of hers. My mother was never able to show me any kind of love or affection, no matter how much I showered her with, and this was always an open wound in my life. 
I know many other women who have had similar dysfunctional relationships with their mothers, so I know this is not a unique problem. Mother's Day is not the warm and fuzzy holiday for us that it is for women whose mothers are still alive and with whom they have/had close, loving relationships.
I love my mother and miss her terribly even after all these years , but I also longed for her and missed her in much the same way during her actual lifetime. So this post and this poem are for my mother on Mother's Day—and for all the other women out there like me who still long for and miss their mothers, even after their deaths. A complicated woman in a complicated relationship, who, like most mothers , did the best she could, I suspect.

CONVERSATION WITH MY MOTHER’S PICTURE

You and Dad were entirely happy here— you in purple miniskirt, white vest and tights(you always wore what was already too youngfor me), Dad in purple striped pants,a Kansas State newsboy’s cap made for a bigger man’s head.You both held Wildcat flags and megaphonesto cheer the football team who,like the rest of the college, despised youmiddle-aged townies, arranging for their penicillinand pregnancy tests and selling themcameras and stereos at deep discount.But you were happyin this picture, before they foundoat-cells in your lungs.
After the verdict, he took you to Disneyland,this man who married you and your five childrenwhen I was fifteen. He took you cross-countryto visit your family, unseensince your messy divorce.He took you to St. Louisand Six Flags Over Texas and to Topekafor radiation treatments.I don’t think he ever believedyou could die. Now he’s goingthe same way. And none of uslive in that Wildcat town with the manwho earned his “Dad” the hard wayfrom suspicious kids and nursedyour last days. For me, this new dyingbrings back yours, leaving me only this imageof you both cheering for lucky winners.
Published in Heart's Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)