Marlowe Hanna

wandering in reverie

Mantra for the End

screen-shot-2016-11-07-at-8-43-45-pmNot another thought. Giving you another minute of my time would be a disservice to the woman I am, and the work to make sure I’m not looked at the way she is. If you need a girl that basic, I was always too advanced for you.


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And then there are the lost ones…


The day of all Mothers. A day of universal adoration for the creators of life. Children carry wildflowers in mason jars, and deliver breakfast in bed with misshapen pancakes made by tiny clumsy fingers. Handmade cards scrawled “I love you, mom” in purple crayon.

…and then there are the lost ones.

The lost ones gather around your grave this day. The day of all Mothers. Mothers torn from us before we were done being mothered. We relive the empty, tortured moments. The arguments we could have let go. The Christmases we could have came home. Are we forgetting the sound of your voice? What would you tell me to do? Tell me what to do.

I’m lost without you…

Today, on this the day of all Mothers, we remember the day we became lost. Forget about handmade cards and misshapen pancakes and flowers. We get to remember that one, endless scream that escaped our bodies, as it took a piece of our soul as it left. Grasping your lifeless hand one last time before they closed your casket. Those of us not lucky enough to roll their eyes when their mom says how proud she is. Those of us who don’t get the opportunity to berate her for being overbearing. Those who crave for just a minute with her. That’s us…

…the lost ones.

I can see it. I can remember making you those misshapen pancakes. Picking you wildflowers by the river and tying them with my hair ribbon. I couldn’t wait to show you. When I wasn’t lost.  When I was your daughter and blood flowed through my heart without diversion.

Slowly, scar tissue forms around that hole in your heart. And it pumps. With your blood it pumps, and now with the endorsement of your ubiquitous spirit, we move forward. We adapt. Every day another step. Every third step a stumble until one day…

…. all at once I’m not lost. She’s here. My tiny hand becomes her tiny  hand. Scrawling purple crayon on construction paper, and a faint knock on my door followed by a musical giggle on this day of all Mothers. She’s here. You are, though you aren’t.  With every pump of your blood, my heart beats for her. The empty moments fade away, and are replaced with, “I love you mom.”

…and I’m not lost. She’s here.