The Valley

It isn't quite what I thought, this being-a-mother thing.  The early days of generous visitor after enthusiastic visitor did not foreshadow days of monotony and loneliness.  Idyllic childhood dreams of being a mommy didn't include this level of sacrifice and loss.

I love it, I do.  And I love them, the ones who have made me Mom.

I love them so much that while it makes me sad to be losing a friend, I watch her drift away and do nothing.  How can I explain it to her, when I don't understand it myself?  I feel selfish for clinging to my Time like a hoarder, but I don't know that I can let go.  And so I watch her across the valley called My Kids and know that shouting is in vain.  I holler anyway, even knowing it won't bring us any closer.  Perhaps, at least, we won't turn our backs if we are still shouting now and again.  Facing each other is better than the alternative.  How did we get here?

I am mourning what we had.  Even when we are together, I feel the valley.  Your life is so so different from mine.  What do I share?  What do I say, that doesn't draw attention to the fact that we don't have anything in common?

I don't know how to navigate the grief.  I don't know if I'm supposed to let you go and move on.  Or fight for us?  How much is fighting for us going to cost me?  Is it worth it?  Will it even work?

Remember me?  We used to blare our songs.  Have inside jokes.  Compare about travel adventures.  Trade books.  Watch movies.  Dream.  Look at photos.  Giggle.  Fill weekends.  Call.  Talk.

Do you remember?
Do you miss it too?