Gone

This woman,
This woman here
In front of me,
This is not my mother.
My mother is kind,
Brimming with maternal
Wisdom
And
Knowledge of
How the World Works.
She knows the
Perfect words to soothe my
Battered feelings
And my shattered heart.
She laughs when I am happy,
Encourages when I am defeated,
Sympathizes when I am outraged.
Her eyes sparkle with
The experience earned from
A life of military homemaking
In unfamiliar territories,
Unafraid but challenged.
She is always there with
A warm hug,
A caring smile,
Words to bolster,
Love in her heart--
If not on her lips.

But this woman,
This woman who chooses
To berate me for
Endless 'wrongs' that I
Have committed,
She cannot be my mother.
She accuses my allegiance has
Slipped
From 'her side' to that of
My best friend and her family,
That I have turned against
Her
And all that she has done for me.
She claims my affections are
Lost
To her,
Yet she is the one
Who delivers the rare hug
As if it is a duty,
Not a joy.
No more words
For encouragement,
For laughter,
For wisdom,
For knowledge,
For soothing;
Only for tearing down happiness,
For deconstructing
Confidence and
Self-esteem.
Independence.
A life.

I cry for my mother,
Lost to this
Angry, bitter, infirm
Shell of a woman
Who nurtures a
Hatred
For the world that
Stole the only
Person
Who ever truly
Understood--
Or loved--
Her
Almost a quarter century before.
I cry for my mother,
Lost to the
Minuscule blood clot
That stole her
Personality
And replaced it with
A stranger's.
I cry for my mother,
Lost to the
Confusion and
Irrationality
Of her own mind.
I cry for myself,
Lost,
Because my mother is

Gone.