To My Mother

You stitched my organs with a thread

You hoped would bring me back.

You sat and wept over my fluttering heart that

Longed to fly, ached to go.

With a kiss for your cheek I left.

& time past is the crumbly white memory

of honey at the edge of the blue lidded jar.

The threads are pulling at my heart;

I wish beyond the confines of my body

I could go home again.

Angered, I ripped the threads out and threw

The bloody strings away.

& time past is the sweet smell of grass

in the early suntime.

Truth is brought out;

Examined under a microscope.

The wish to go home never leaves

Even with the absence of the threads.

(And now)

You hug me until the wishing is fulfilled.

Now you weep tears of happiness

For the wanderer back home.

And I see with wonderment, the threads

Connecting your heart to mine.

& time now is the only time we have,

the only time we’ll ever have.

Linda Peachey, 2021

& we will both never understand the thing inside me that wants to forever run. But home is always home.