The one day I every year I actually dread more than the anniversary of my own mother's death.
It'll be the first Mother's Day in YEARS where I've actually gone to Church. I've made commitments. I teach now. I'm determined to be there. But truthfully, I don't know how I'll react. I don't know if I'll be able to cope.
After eight years of marriage and no children, I've reached a stage of grief that lights the beginning of acceptance. Acceptance not because I want to accept the fact that I may never be able to get pregnant, but because I need acceptance in order to function. In order to not be angry and bitter. In order to be happy with all of the beauty that my life has now. I need to accept the fact that I may never get pregnant and have children of my own blood.
And I've been progressing toward that acceptance.
But Mother's Day is different. It's not your ordinary Sunday. And while I thought I could handle it, the simple singing voices of children in Church twisted my heart and it took every piece of my soul working overdrive in order to keep me from falling to pieces.
I often go walking in meadows of clover,But as the day grows closer, I wonder what will happen. Will I wake up and treat it like any other normal day? Will I be able to focus on celebrating the lives of my own mothers? Will I be able to handle listening to talks in Church about the blessing of motherhood? Will I be able to put my own feelings aside in order to teach the children in my class? Will I then go home and crumble?
And I gather armfuls of blossoms of blue.
I gather the blossoms the whole meadow over;
Dear mother, all flowers remind me of you.
I have to keep it together.
Even though I know that no one would mind my tears, I don't want to be the sadness that pushes into a happy day for so many others.
So I try to be silent. I try to be still.
I try with all my might not to wonder what could have been.