A poem I wrote to the older woman who sat with me when my youngest was in hospital earlier this year.
I wish I knew her name and I hope to be her one day.
It’s a special kind of love mum’s have
The older woman watching on said.
And I thought, I hope to be her one day,
When grey hairs crown my head.
For in that day of turbulence.
I felt her eyes on me.
And she watched, seemingly reflecting,
At the small world she could see.
While the world moved around us,
And we got in the way of all the bustle.
I shadowed my toddler exploring,
Brought him back with a small tousle.
She chuckled at his energy,
Marvelled as I kept up.
He doesn’t stop this little one,
She laughed as he came up.
And when we brought him out after,
His screams puncturing the quiet.
She wheeled herself up gently,
And asked if I was alright.
Amidst a room of recovery,
Where everyone wanted us to go.
Was this woman, recovering herself,
Who wanted us to know -
That she’d been there and she knew how hard,
Days like this could be.
That she saw us, that she knew what it took,
But mostly that she saw me.
And it is a special love mum’s have.
Its weave begun before babes are born.
And by the time children are all grown,
It’s a cloak lovingly adorned.
I felt the years before me
As I looked into her eyes.
While her past flashed back at her,
In my toddler’s fall and rise.
And I hope one day to be her.
To offer back what she offered me.
In one of a mother’s hardest days,
To sit there and make her feel seen.
