over the years, the person who birthed you has acquired many different names.

 

her first name is mama

your first instinct, even before you’re able to form a coherent thought, 

even before registering who she is, 

is to call out to her

to mama

hoping she’ll hear you because you think she’s the only one who can understand you. 

she is. 

“mama!”

she embraces you in a warm hug before answering 

“yes baby, im mama! can you say dada now?”

 

a couple years later, she receives her second name: mommy 

that happens when she enters the house looking more tired than usual for the first time

“mommy!” 

you call out to her as she makes her way inside.

her palm is on her forehead, eyes scrunched and closed.

she lets out a deep breath and instead of her, the figure formerly known as dada answers “mommy’s had a long day, how about we let her rest now?”

 

her third name is given to her when you cry: mum 

you trip on a tree branch, the moss providing it a perfect camouflage.

the world seems to slow down as you fall and the first thought that comes to your mind is “i need her”.

when you’re on the ground you look at your scraped knee.

crimson drips on your leg.

you cry.

“mum! help!”

 

her fourth name is established during a fight: mom

she wants you to be an engineer.

she’s worried about the 95/100 you got on the math exam.

you show her your 100/100 on english. 

it doesn’t matter.

“I didn’t raise you to be a failure!” she screams. 

you cry. 

“stop losing time with hobbies and focus on what really matters. you have so much potential and you’re wasting it for nothing. you are meant to be an engineer.”

your dad watches. 

“Mom!” you yell, “how many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want to be an engineer.” 

 

she gets her fifth name when you introduce her to your friend: mother

you had a fight the night before. 

you don’t even remember what it was about.

when you enter the house, your friend right by your side,

she rolls her eyes. 

she won’t acknowledge you. 

you turn to your friend “this is my” you point to her “mother.”

 

her sixth name isn’t even a name, a placeholder. 

only a pronoun: she

you keep fighting. 

you don’t know why.

she doesn’t either.

it doesn’t stop you from blaming her, and her from blaming you.

you keep thinking how she doesn’t understand you.

she keeps thinking how you don’t understand her. 

you’re too alike,

too proud and too tenacious to back down and apologise. 

and when no one apologises, 

it never ends. 

years pass and you don’t talk to each other. 

you’re in college now, you blame that.

“i can’t be home all the time anymore, i’m busy” 

you know that’s an excuse, but still attempt to convince yourself. 

you see each other from holiday to holiday,

you sit next to her on Thanksgiving dinner,

you sing “Jingle Bell Rock” together on Christmas. 

you have 30 second phone calls once every three months. 

you talk to each other,

but you don’t.  

 

as she gets older and you get maturer,

you turn right back. 

she’s laying in the hospital bed.

the nurses help her eat.

you don’t know if it’s too late.

“mama” you softly whisper when you enter her room “are you okay?”

she nods, a smile appearing on her face as she sees you.

she opens her arms.

she embraces you in a warm hug before answering.

“i’m okay, baby.” 

 

you have a burning sensation in your eyes.

two teardrops fall at the exact same time:

you are too alike. 

“i’m sorry” you both say. 

you look into each other’s eyes.

you’re both crying. 

you are everything she could’ve been

and she is everything you might be.

she’s the past and you’re the future, 

she is your shadow and you are her window.

 

your brain stops working and you can’t think of anything to say to disrupt the silence as you lay your head on her chest. 

she closes her eyes.

 

im sorry. 

im sorry. im sorry. im sorry. 

please don’t cry.

please don’t cry, mama.