Ode to Bittie

Flesh of my flesh,
blood of my blood.
Where are you?
I gaze helplessly into a mirror which tells me I am yours,
it tells me my skin, my eyes, the texture of my hair the rhythm of my heart beat, was created in your womb,
and yet I cannot find the comfort of your bosom as I have all my years.
Where might you be resting?
My brother says it's as if you are in your room, tucked away safely just preoccupied and knowing we are well enough that we do not need your direct attention.
But mama, direct attention from you feels like a need equal to air, food, and water.
You yourself are shelter, and this storm is being weathered but not the way I wanted.
Sometimes I still hear you laugh; it bounces off the walls of my brain, the brain I no longer trust as I can't bounce ideas off of yours.
My heart still pounds in rhythm but the blues of it all makes a somber beat.
Can't you just come down from your room?
Can't you hold my hand once more or laugh at daddy's corny jokes?
Come hold your Naomi tight in your arms and sit in the grass and swap silent stories of life before here and after.
Come inhale the smell of new skin off your grandsons neck, oh how he looks just like you; the genetics of your joy tangled into his laughter, he's a happy boy just as you knew he would be.
And we somehow are still a happy family, still celebrating and grieving together as you would have asked us to, but oh mama how I wish you yourself could comfort us.
I touch my fingers to my wrist and feel a pulse, but just as I don't understand how blood still runs through my veins, I don't quite grasp how you no longer will come around that hallway corner and beam at me as you have so many times before.
"Sadie..." floating from your smiling mouth, as you always were smiling at me.
No one said my name like you, mama.
Sometimes I get frustrated, mostly when I realize I am moving on, moving away from the life that you were apart of and into a life where you are a story I must tell.
Guilt wraps me up, and I know you taught me better, you taught me not to resist change, but how can I teach myself to be okay with letting you melt into history...
when it still takes me seven seconds every morning when awakening to recognize you are no longer present.
I do not mean to whine, mama, for you did not raise me to moan at my circumstances, but this weight gets so exhausting, and it feels incorrectly placed.
I would go so far as to say this is just not fair, but I recognize clearly that there is no good or bad, fair or unfair. There just is.
And so I will let what is, be.
I have gotten tired many times this year, but never given up, and I believe the worst is over so I just must maintain.
No you will not be coming down from your room, but as long as I can still hear you humming I will sing a long with you.

"If I had words, to make a day for you

I'd sing you a morning golden and true...."

And though you are of no need for physical things like hearts and brains, mine still are synced to yours and often I feel your beats and vibrations and dance to the joys you send my way.
I will hold my own hand, clasping them in front of me as I thank God for loving me in so much greatness it can only be measured in increments of you.
I will share the corniest jokes with daddy and kiss his sweet face so you can whisper through the echo of our laughter that joy is beginning again for him.
Naomi and I will pick up your wordless discussions and look to the sky smiling when the winds rustle through our hair.
Isaiah and I will laugh for no reason, as I stare into his warm hazel eyes, and I see you staring back at me.
We are going to be okay, mama. Just as you trusted we would be.
I just ask you to help remind me on days where breathing feels like an option I would like not to have.
Remind me of how brave we are, and how there is always something worth celebrating, and how physical fun need not be looked back on, but enjoyed now.
And so now I close my eyes and listen to birds sing, I taste my food with greater enjoyment, I smell every flower I can get to, and I touch everything I can get my hands on.
I like keeping my eyes closed though, because that is when I can see you best. For who you were as well as for you are. Smiling, laughing, loving, praising.
Oh mama, please understand I see and feel you absolutely everywhere,
but I will never stop missing that pretty face you use to wear.


This is not a mournful poem...it's an honest confession of a daughter who misses her mother as she once knew her. But honestly I know exactly where my mama is...she's simply wherever I am.