Friday, October 25, 2013

My Máire

Máire Uí Mhaicín was not only a brilliant, beautiful woman, but also my perfect Mom, my matron of the arts, my biggest fan, and me hers. She died almost two weeks ago and this is a short piece I wrote about her while sitting in the ward, trying my utmost to cherish that time we had in the short weeks before she left us. I miss her terribly.

My mother is breathtaking. I'm from her, and her blood is mine. So I cherish my blood along with all of the parts of her personality that have managed to quietly trickle into me as I've grown into a woman. She's a bratty genius, a person of soft presence, who talks too much for the lungs that are now gently running out of breath.. Her womb is where I began, and is now carrying her end. With the help of medicine she is calm, sometimes irritated, a specific advisory and deliciously darkly witty..., gesturing, stretching, and dispensing wisdom with her ever glamorous wrists. Her mischievous eyes flash blue, angrily and lovingly glowing onto me, as her body fails her. I don't want her to go. Neither does she. But she's weary now, as my face touches hers, and the scent of her skin breathes in. She is so very loved, and I've never felt as loved by anyone. She'll always win. And with each breath, I try to be more like her. I fail because she, in every breath, is taking a gush of my love with her and she'll keep it. I try to catch my breath, force time to slow, and exhale.