The Garden of Strong Mothers

This story was written last May. I am reposting it in honor of Mother’s Day this coming weekend. Wishing all mothers a very Happy Mother’s Day!

Last week, in the 32 degree weather, I headed to swim in the pool outside. I was intent on just reusing words I had written in the spring of 2020, for my next story. As I started to move through the warm water, thoughts and words swam around me. At the foundation of these thoughts, were the original words:

Growing up, I always considered my paternal grandmother (who I was very close to) the be strongest woman I knew.  She had gone through tragedy and continued to carry herself with strength and dignity.   I wanted to emulate my grandmother; I still hold her as a role model to live up to.  She was like an Oak tree, tall and strong. 

My mother, on the other hand, is more like a flower in the desert. Something that has to have incredible strength to endure the hardships of where it has to grow. Like a flower, my mother doesn’t appear as if she would have the need of strength. She has had to go through more than one person should have to. Over the past few years, I have come to recognize that my strength comes somewhat from my grandmother, but mostly from my mom. Not only was my mother strong in the hand that she was dealt in life, but has helped me to be strong when I needed it most. She would have come to London, after the Lockerbie tragedy, had I wanted her to. When I was going through a dark period, she came to Boston . She helped lift me up when when I was separated from my first husband and pregnant with my firstborn; then through my eldest daughters first year of life. As life goes on, my mom continues to be here for me and I try to be there for her. I hope her strength will pass on to my daughters.

With each stroke I realized that I have surrounded myself with strong women, all mothers . I envisioned a garden where the flora represented my friends. A kind of  poem started to form….

Each time I swam this past week, I thought about this poem (I am not poet). In the end, I couldn’t think of one of my friends who has not had to carry something heavy in theirI’m soul. Does everyone have to go through hard times? I look at my grandmother, my mother… perhaps this is human nature. I don’t know the answer. What I do know is that my family and my friends are resilient, each with a special strength to be revered.