To My Mother

By: Charlotte Martin

I love you.

I love the way you used to brush my hair in the mornings before school,

your hands were careful, like you were trying not to hurt me.

I love the way you let me borrow your clothes

and call it dress up,

how I felt older just standing in your shoes.

I love the way you never take the blame for anything.

The way every criticism becomes

“I’m a bad mother,”

like there is no space between perfect and unforgivable.

I love that I thought I could fix it.

I love that you let me try.

I love that you let me dye my hair in the bathroom at 5 a.m.

even though you said no.

I love that you didn’t treat me like a child

even when I was one.

I love that you let me sip your coffee.

Your wine.

I love that you left him.

I don’t love that you left us too.

I love that I learned you were not God.

Not perfect.

Not untouchable.

I love that you rub my head when my migraines split me open.

That you wake up at 5:30 in the morning

just so I don’t wake up alone.

I love that you can talk to me for hours.

I love that sometimes it feels like we are the same person.

I forgive you.

Because what else can I do?

Be mad at you forever?

I never could.

Not when I was a child

And not now

I love you because I don’t know how to stop.