I don’t ever remember calling you anything else. Not before, not after, even during the in-between.
I only ever remember calling you ma.
You raised me half of my life. Half of my 29 years.
More like half of the 30 I haven’t reached yet.
You filled such a huge void in tiny me’s life. A me who was so used to being hurt, beaten, and abused.
In my minds eye, you were one of few who never demonized me, or made me feel shame.
Never told me I was less than, or not worth all the trouble; because wasn’t I so much trouble?
I remember telling you they’d called me an evil spawn, I remember telling you they said I deserved it.
You were horrified, that horror reminded me of before, when I’d run to you, and you’d hold me and make it better.
When we reconnected I was afraid, I didn’t know what to expect, I thought you would love me less; you didn’t.
But I didn’t want to get hurt again, because I’d felt like I’d already lost you once. I kept my distance.
I need more time, time to fill that space again, to spend more time, and share more;
moments. I need more,
to show you I turned out exactly how you said I would; loved and loving.
I need more time to have less regrets, because I don’t know how I can make it with them,
not as they are right now.
I just need more time.