I wish my Mother could have warned me about being her daughter. She could have told
me I’d grow up someday to be just like her. She might have drawn me aside as a child
“Katalina, my favorite daughter, don’t be afraid to try new things. Just throw caution to
the wind and soar.”
I wish my Mother could have stood in all her beauty and said,
“Honor your body, sweet child. We are never satisfied with what we have. Be satisfied.
I wish my Mother, when I was first in love, could have taken me for coffee and told me
how, before I died, I’d love deeper and longer than every time before.
I wish my Mother could have been honest about her needs, not defended nor denied, but
“Katalina, my girl, do not be ashamed to want things. Hold out until you are happy. You
deserve to be happy!”
My Mother should have told me that tears aren’t promises, and sorrys aren’t solutions,
and forevers have a way of falling down mid-flight.
I wish my Mother could have spoken to me more, and sung to me more, and nagged me
more, before I suddenly realized our roles would reverse.
She should have warned me that someday I would see her face in the mirror. She should
have convinced me of the delight in finding we have the same hands.
I wish my Mother could have embraced herself with all the energy of her love, and with
the sweet cool touch of her forgiveness. She should have taken her own advice.
I wish my Mother could’ve had the chance to spend the day doing all the things she
meant to do, going all the places she meant to go. She should’ve eaten all the junk food
she wanted to eat. She should have danced.
Maybe she still will.