It started almost from the beginning, Before we'd learned this family dance, Rick chose that precooked turkey shortcut— An easy Thanksgiving plan. Across the miles you laughed together; Somehow it became my turkey then, Compared it to your mother's cooking, And laughed at lukewarm water yet again. No one mentioned all the pies there, Fruit and dressing, yams I'd made, Just the ways I wasn't like her, How I fell short that Thanksgiving day. And through the years we'd sometimes learn of Other laughter, other things— Ways I talked or cooked or did things, Criticisms making wings. I knew I wasn't your mother. I never tried to take her place. I thought there could be room for difference, Room for both of us with grace. That's the irony that's hard to miss, The contradiction in the end: You were angry about things you thought I'd said about your mom back then. You believed her name deserved respect, That words could wound and leave a scar— And I agree with every bit of that. I just wish it reached this far. If mothers should be spoken of With tenderness and dignity, Why did that same rule that sheltered her Never seem to shelter me? For seventeen years I spoke her name And tried to keep her story near, Left her picture in our family, Made it safe to hold her dear. I never needed less of Debbie For there to still be room for me; Love was never a competition, At least that's how I thought it'd be. Then that night the words kept traveling, In a text sent miles away— Words about the mother they had known, And things they knew I'd never say. And I've wondered since how no one saw The contradiction there that night: You claim to be defending your mother While wounding theirs in the fight. That's the irony that's hard to miss, The contradiction in the end: You were angry about things you thought I'd said about your mom back then. You believed her name deserved respect, That words could wound and leave a scar— And I agree with every bit of that. I just wish it reached this far. If mothers should be spoken of With tenderness and dignity, Why did that same rule that sheltered her Never seem to shelter me? Maybe grief makes comparisons. Maybe memory sets the bar. Maybe everything that's different Feels like drifting much too far. Maybe hurt can make a mirror Harder than it ought to be— We notice every wound we're carrying And miss the ones we leave. But I was somebody's mother too, With children of my own. And every word that made me smaller Could wound them when it reached their home. You want tenderness given To the mother you still miss— My children love their mother too. That's the irony of this. So I'll honor what I've always believed: Your mother should be spoken of With gratitude for all she gave you, With tenderness, respect, and love. But kindness shouldn't belong to only one side, Grace shouldn't recognize just one name. If something hurts when aimed at your mother It can hurt others just the same. I won't answer hurt with hurting. I'll let kindness be my guide. I'll simply leave this truth here gently: Your mother mattered deeply. And so did I. Two mothers. Different stories. Different gifts and memories. There was always room to honor her. I only wish there had been room to honor me.
