Flowers from my mother means she forgives me for writing about my childhood. For making her look like a bad mother at worst, a less than perfect one at most. For not honoring my father and mother. For uncovering their drunken nakedness and bringing more than my brothers to see.

Flowers from my mother means she’s sorry for what’s happened and all she cannot change. All she cannot admit to. All she will not accept blame for.

Flowers from my mother means she loves me despite the hurt and regret she feels. A promise she never will stop loving me.

Flowers from my mother both aver and eschew her explanations, her excuses, her apologies. Her mistakes are not all of who she was or is. There was beauty too. And still is.

Flowers from my mother tug at the little-girl parts of me that love her no matter what and want good things for her no matter what. To caretake her heart. Show her grace. And have that be okay.

Flowers from my mother embrace the truth and embrace me with it.

Flowers from my mother means I’m free. Free to make what’s been good for nothing, good for something.  Even someone. Free to write about what we could never talk about.

And write the hell out of it. Cuz hell has stayed in far too long.

Photo Credit: White Rose

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