Last Time I Tell This Story

This is the last time I will tell this story.

I need my mother’s love.

I knew this all of my life and
It is still true today.

I need my mother’s love.

She was beautiful and I would have told
her so if I wasn’t so afraid she’d hit me.

I need my mother’s love.

I didn’t like Ice Capades but I would’ve
joined her to watch a show about
Barbara Ann Scott, her favourite skater.

I need my mother’s love.

When she scooped me up in her arms after
Dad kicked over the coffee table and
scalded me with tea, I knew it for sure.

I need my mother’s love.

I tried to do everything right –
With every ounce of energy my
little self could muster. If only
the rules didn’t keep changing;
I just couldn’t keep up.

I need my mother’s love.

When Mom let me visit a friend’s house,
For the first time, I saw what a normal
family was like–laughing, hugging, and
no yelling. They were so wonderful to
me. I relaxed and was happy there.
I never wanted to go home.

I need my mother’s love.

Mom is the main reason I didn’t
have kids. When I read that the abused
become abusers, it left an indelible
mark on my brain. I knew I couldn’t
live with myself if I did that to my kids.

I need my mother’s love.

When I was seventeen, two of their friends
raped me. Days later, I was so full of
anguish, I called Mom for help. I never,
ever thought she might be involved–that
they’d make good on their daily threats to
violate me as well. “They hurt me,” I said, sobbing.

I need my mother’s love.

On a Sunday drive to the cheese factory,
they wouldn’t stop the car so I could pee.
At home hours later, they mocked me as I
fell out of the car. I couldn’t walk.
He wouldn’t carry me upstairs. My pain was
so bad, I had to squat in broad daylight,
at the tree by classmate’s house.

I need my mother’s love.

“I can’t for the life of me figure out why
you kids let people push you around,” Mom
said, over a Tim Horton’s coffee. In an
internal rage, I screamed long and loud.

I need my mother’s love.

On a visit to see Steve, we called Mom
and, after I built up the courage, I asked
if the three of us could get together.
“Nope,” she said, giggling. A lump
sprang to my throat. Somehow, I knew
that I would never lay eyes on
her again. I never did.

I need my mother’s love.

The last time we spoke on the phone,
she shocked me by saying, “I never
Thought you’d turn out to be so caring.”
Saying nothing, I realized that it
surprised me even more.

I need my mother’s love.

Mom died thirteen years ago.
Yet I can’t seem to shake her
Belief that there is something
Really wrong with me, to be
Rejected by the woman whose
body gave me the first breath
of life. Yes. Still . . .

I need my mother’s love.

Terry Gibson, 2012.