“But she is gone!” Mother cried, “My baby girl is gone…”
“There, there,” the spirit said, “She is not gone…she is grown, and you have done your job…it is time for her to strike out on her own and make her own way”.
“But why…why?” she cried out in the dark of night.
“Because all that is finished must begin again anew, and this part of your cycle has come complete…”
“I do not feel complete. I feel as empty as my pouch looks.”
“And yet, I see space for what is yet to be discovered. Sit with your pain in silence. Allow it to move through you with the angst it brings. Do not rush it, try to push it away. Admonish it. Just sit. Observe. Allow.
Go now, and do not talk of this with anyone.”
Mother does as the spirit beckons. She longs for her heart to be free of the anguish it has tortured her with. She looks at it, her inner eyes tearing until they are through, and then again, and again. The color of her orange red tears tear at her very core. She watches them. Allows them, despite the pain.
“A Momma’s love is like no other she hears a familiar voice say.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I miss you so.”
“And, I, the safety of your bosom Mother…”
“Are you okay?”
“I am.”
“What will I do without you?”
“You will be my Mother. Always.”
“And you?”
“I too someday, and then I too will know that which you bear alone in the dark of night.”
“I do not wish you pain my dear daughter.”
“Yes… but, was I worth it?”
— Trish
“There, there,” the spirit said, “She is not gone…she is grown, and you have done your job…it is time for her to strike out on her own and make her own way”.
“But why…why?” she cried out in the dark of night.
“Because all that is finished must begin again anew, and this part of your cycle has come complete…”
“I do not feel complete. I feel as empty as my pouch looks.”
“And yet, I see space for what is yet to be discovered. Sit with your pain in silence. Allow it to move through you with the angst it brings. Do not rush it, try to push it away. Admonish it. Just sit. Observe. Allow.
Go now, and do not talk of this with anyone.”
Mother does as the spirit beckons. She longs for her heart to be free of the anguish it has tortured her with. She looks at it, her inner eyes tearing until they are through, and then again, and again. The color of her orange red tears tear at her very core. She watches them. Allows them, despite the pain.
“A Momma’s love is like no other she hears a familiar voice say.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I miss you so.”
“And, I, the safety of your bosom Mother…”
“Are you okay?”
“I am.”
“What will I do without you?”
“You will be my Mother. Always.”
“And you?”
“I too someday, and then I too will know that which you bear alone in the dark of night.”
“I do not wish you pain my dear daughter.”
“Yes… but, was I worth it?”
— Trish
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