The Mothers We Need to Remember: A Poem

for the mothers we forget

The poem, “We, Too, Dream of the Sun and Moon,” is written for the mothers we sometimes forget on Mother’s Day. It is a hard read, even for me. As I wrote a pair of poems for Mother’s Day, one with the reality and the second a little lighter for Corrie, I wanted to remember moms we sometimes seldom think of on such a day. This poem is written for:

Mothers who’ve lost a child or children,

Mothers who have struggled to conceive,

Mothers who have a child who is neuroatypical

Please remember these mothers in your thoughts somewhere on Mother’s Day just as I ask you to remember Corrie.

For my Mother’s Day, if you somewhere could just say, “Corrie” out loud, it means everything.

We, too, dream of the sun and the moon

I remember my mother laid her head

on a pillow below a portrait of 

roses of the kind of red she–

and later I–despised to see.

The roses stood apart from the

white background, and a green

reminiscent of royal robes in

a time long ago 

made more of by myth

than what historical 

documents show 

bordered the white and the rose.

I peeked through the crack of 

their bedroom door when

she called for my father.

He brought with him:

a bag and needles.

They’d  told me they were 

safe and meant to 

help her

have another.

And on my knees at the 

ages of four, five, 

and six, I prayed 

for a brother 

or a sister 

I’d planned 

to name 

Kelly Elizabeth.

More often than we realize

so many mothers of 

different kinds are 

knocked to the side,

and feel their way 

alone through the 

dark as if someone 

brings them needles

and a bag. They tire

of the red none wish

to see.  More often,

such mothers as these

are made more of by myth

like green robes long ago.

too few thought on 

holidays, like Mother’s 

Day, these women wished

to be remembered, too 

for their dreams, or what

they’ve lost. Others wish 

to forget the day like 

chocolates and 

flowers tossed aside on 

Valentine’s Day.

This is not say the day 

is not worth 

the celebration

of what you have, but 

to remember those 

who have lost, or 

hope to gain a child

in their arms.

I remembered when I stayed

with a babysitter, 

my grandmother, or

my aunt. I asked, “Where

has Mommy gone?”

Someone somewhere told 

me, like a prayer a parent

says with a child, that

“One of the twins is gone.” 

I wondered in my mother’s 

closet, and pulled down her

white wedding hat. The brim

of the hat swooped around

reminiscent of days 

when life showed a brighter sun.

Ash blonde hair stood up

everywhere as I rearranged 

the hat again and again,

but the brim fell over my 

face like a rabbit with its ears.

I stomped around in her 

black high heels she only 

ever wore to school or church.

Then when I thought I was

done, and I knew Mommy

wasn’t home yet, I hid

behind my mother’s skirts,

and held her hat to my chest.

In a world where the birth 

rate drops, and there are 

those who celebrate,

yes, women dream and they

achieve. But there are still those 

with a dream to conceive.

Such dreams of motherhood

don’t die out completely 

with  modernity.

One year ago, I contemplated a third

with two children at my side, 

and I watched them by a lake:

How he complimented her in 

opening her mind to pretend–

of the Godzilla and dinosaur kind.

How she brought him back

down to Earth reminding him 

to think of what he said to 

another before he spoke.

What would I ruin if we 

added another, or what if  

they had more love to 

share besides to each other?

On such days, when we remember

mothers: those are the everydays

when you see them gather 

at the pool, the park, the soccer

match, or waiting in the car 

afterschool. There are the 

other kinds of mothers 

we sometimes forget: the 

ones whose child seldom 

receives a birthday 

invitation,

and who fear if they did 

have a birthday for their 

child, then the tables would

remain empty.  

Those mothers of children 

who possess minds beautifully

different than those called 

“neurotypical” learn strength 

early on: 

How to deal with others’ stares 

when your child melts down

over the toilets flushing in 

the  bathroom, and you have to 

use special ways to calm them

down.  How some adults 

designate themselves as God, 

and deliver you and your child 

a bag and needles. 

But one year ago, I was the happiest 

mother at home with my son

and my daughter; my sun and 

moon.  Until the day, late in

May, when a fever, pale face, and 

ambulances racing to Levine

took the breath in my lungs away.

This mother would’ve gladly 

given her life if it meant her 

moon could shine and give

the world more golden days.

I laid in a bed with my arms

wrapped around my daughter’s

blanket swaddled around her 

doll. Sometimes I walked 

outside and wondered when–

and if–the sun would rise even

though its light was upon my

face. I yelled out in a way in 

which no mother  should ever

cry, “Corrie, come back.”

But some comebacks 

are only 

dreams in our reality.

More women than most people 

ever want to know 

bury treasures just like me.

Other mothers transform into

superheroes for their child’s 

rights while others dream, and

wonder: When is it my turn?

When is it my time?

Gold could appear

again 

around the border of a 

portrait with roses painted

pink instead of red.