Love Letters and Apologies

What drowning sailors know of love.

Today my mother cried, for the first time in years;
holding my hands like a drowning sailor clutching the planks of rotten wood,
intent on rushing further away into the raging seas.

But didn't you always know how to swim mama?

For every day you spent burning your fingers over the kitchen stove, every minute you counted on words that always ended up lost, sitting at the edge of the dining table like ghosts of silence, every second you spent building a home on desperation and longing- don't you see?
I kept slipping further away.
How did grandma forgive you for that? Did you forgive me?

I was born of a sinking ship- a thousand storms that my mother survived and a couple of which she hid in her chest-
raising me with a certain fear in my skin and salt in my eyes.
When i look at my face in the mirror, i am barely the child who sat in the dark holding a palm out for hope to settle in.
I am not the girl stuffing her pockets full of leftover affection, leaving and waiting to rip out my stormy night and place a particularly warm sun inside my ribcage.
But i am in all the essential ways,
the woman who birthed me.

Mama, what do you see when you look at me?

Rage has left my bones brittle and years of living off stolen candies has my teeth looking like i ate disappointment for breakfast, and i think i probably did.
You kiss my shadow and ask me why i waste away my years, sitting in silence, my days falling into my empty arms like babies i always give up- waiting for the same thing you did.
How do I stop being a mother? I wish you had asked instead.
Your teacup overflows, spilling into the whitest  tablecloth we own- when did we stop being afraid of stains?

Today my mother cried- holding my hands like a drowned sailor and i no longer wished to escape further away-

I am sorry mama- i just wish you didn't have to see me drown too.