There is nothing like a Mother’s love
There is nothing as strong or as ongoing,
or unconditional, or so it should be,
at least in the right life
or during the right circumstances
of course.
Mother, as in all directing,
as in always connecting,
always thinking
and always looking to care of say, me, for example,
the young one, or should I say
the youngest son who, of course,
was different from the rest of the pack.
It is more than this to me; however, today,
which is the day we call Mother’s Day, and
this is only another addition to a chapter
or another note to a journal
which, as always,
comes from the heart.
But no, there is more to it.
There is more to this for me,
and there will always be more.
I trace back the time to my younger years,
to when I was a boy,
or to when I was sick, or to when I was really sick,
or worse, to when when I was wild
or on fire,
angry with contempt,
and filled with demons
that took pieces of me
before I had the chance
to run a different way.
I go back to when
Mother’s got phone calls at home,
which are not good calls, to say the least,
or calls to be proud of yet,
Mother’s like mine never ceased or stopped
nor gave up or refused to love me.
No.
Not my Mom
Not even in the cases
when I refused to love myself.
Ah, a Mother’s love.
It is strange to think back or to look back
and remember. It is sad, at times, and also
it is enough to make me smile
when thinking about other times
when the world was less intense or stressful
and it was still okay
to “just” be a boy with his Mom.
I think of this.
I think about the way I was brought into this world
and yes, at times, the shortsighted nature
of my younger thinking was angry and blurred
and, of course, I was interrupted by the concepts
which were stuck in my head
about life, or the refusal to believe that perhaps yes,
Moms really do know best.
I think of a line from a movie,
to which, a young boy shouted
as his so-called Mother drove away—and he said,
“You said Moms don’t leave.”
No, son.
They don’t,
at least not the real ones
and neither did she, by the way.
Leave, I mean.
But that was a movie
And this, or you, Mom,
this was my real life.
I think about our entry into this world
and the care, and the nights awake,
or when little kids are stuck in the hospital.
The visiting hours are over, but no.
Moms don’t leave.
I think of the heartaches of youth
and the bumps on the head
or the scrapes on the knees
or the quick trips to the emergency room,
which is enough to make any mother sick or crazy,
or in my case—this was enough
to nearly give any Mother a heart attack
especially when seeing me (your son)
rolled down the corridor, on a gurney,
with some male nurse
running me down the hallway
as fast as he could to get me treated
until the ride moved too fast,
and then I sat up
and I shouted, “Stop the car!”
and then vomited all over the place.
No, I don’t think any Mom in the world
signs up for this, at least not particularly.
But then again, sometimes,
this is part of the job.
Sometimes, this is just called
being a Mom.
I think about the youthful nightmares
and the times when I was in the hospital,
unsure why, or unsure what was happening to me,
or looking out of a hospital window
and not understanding why I couldn’t go outside,
or understanding why I had to be sick.
Either way –
Mom was there.
She never left—well,
at least not really.
I think of the things Mom had to do or say;
and I think about how I took this for granted.
I figured this was par for the course
or part of the job, and that in fact,
Mom signed up for this.
(Somehow)
And maybe she did.
Or maybe Mom was in over her head.
Who knows?
I think of the way I never noticed the tricks of age
or how one day, Mom wasn’t so young anymore,
like a weird surprise
that snuck up out of nowhere.
Age . . .
Now, there’s a real trick
But no one told Mom
that she wasn’t allowed to grow old.
Moms are not allowed to be sick.
No, they have a job to do.
Right?
Age stepped in, but no one told Mom.
No one, except for her body and her joints,
or the problems in her spine
and the decline from here
is where the shifts changed
and the changes began.
Mom is more than a title
and more than a role
and more than a job; yet,
we seldom realize that Moms are human too,
which is obvious, of course,
but only from an intellectual standpoint
because intellectually, we understand this.
Emotionally, I am still
and always will be,
Mrs. Kimmel’s baby boy.
I think of how she used to hold me – Mom,
or how Mom would carry me when I was small,
or how she used to comfort me
when I was scared.
Then I think about the turns we take,
which is where and when the roles reverse,
or how the times
when I would lay awake in her hospital room
and how, now
the shoe was on the other foot.
I remember the last clear
or coherent words my Father told me
before he slipped away.
The Old Man said,
“Take care of your Mother!”
And I did . . .
. . . to the best of my ability.
However, sometimes,
I wish my ability was better.
(Know what I mean?)
Dear Mom,
I am here now, years later.
I am thinking about the role reversal
and the calls I’d get
and the challenges we faced with medication
or the nurses and the doctors
and the procedures.
It was my turn . . .
. . . to care for you.
It is almost nine years to the date
since you left.
You went as you asked to go,
with your two sons by your side,
Dave and me.
I honored your wishes.
I signed the paper—but somehow,
even still, I felt you . . .
I didn’t leave
but yet, you just weren’t there anymore.
I saw you, in a sense,
young again.
Relieved and happy
or, perhaps this was a message
from beyond saying
don’t weep for me.
I’m not gone
I’m just alive
in a different version.
Or as I saw it
your eyes no longer winced with pain,
and your back no longer hunched, and you,
like you were, years before
or like it was when you were young (again)
and in my head, I viewed you this way:
you, waiting in a chair, and slowly
as the earth removed from you,
your body become spirit,
which is equally unending and also ongoing
just like a Mother’s love.
I had asked you for a sign the other day.
And I’m not sure if I read what I saw correctly
or if I saw anything clearly,
or if I saw anything at all
but today is not about me.
No, this is about you, Mom
It is Mother’s Day, May 12, 2024.
Sleep well, Mom.
Or should I say that only your body sleeps
because your soul lives on
and so does your love because again,
nothing is as strong as a Mother’s love.
Know how I know?
Because you told me Moms don’t leave,
at least not the real ones.
I remember the butterflies
and the birds
and the moments when things were out of place
yet, they were placed before me in a perfect way
because this was you
saying what you would always say:
I’m right here, son.
Always
For you, Mom
Alice Elaine Kimmel
Send something, if you can
and if you can,
answer my prayer.
I’d like to show you the life
I want to live,
hopefully sooner
rather than later.
Love always,
Your son and baby boy
B-
The Written Addiction 