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Mother

A Poetry Collection | Brianna Edwards '27

I have always loved my mother

But maybe when my father first cut the umbilical cord, we have always been disconnected in a way

Once, our hearts beat as one

Now, they collide, misunderstand one another

My father cut the umbilical cord, my mother cut the wings.

“Respond to me in Chinese!”

“Then I won’t speak to you at all!”

Repress one side, repress the other

Which side do I belong to?

Can I please not belong to one or the either, but belong to myself? Loved? Whole?

Repress the tongue of my mother, shut the eyes of my voice.

Calm your breath, steady your heart.

You are your mother’s daughter, living proof

Of your fierce ancestors who fought to survive.

What do you have to fear?

Their blood pulses in your veins. Your voice is strong, you carry the unsung

Stories of centuries of your history.

The one person I want a hug from

Is the one person who cannot give it to me

I cannot seek the healing

From the one who broke me

I poke holes in my ears

To hide the holes in my heart

I scratch away at the skin of my arms

To prevent myself from tearing myself apart

I want to go home

I want my mother

I want to be held in a sea of love

And not be drowned in its waves

I want to be laid in a soft bed of grass

And not buried beneath its dirt

I want to go home

For the only person who can heal my broken heart

Is the person

Who grew it in the first place

Mother

Clearing away my old documents before I graduate high school

And transporting them into a new drive

I stumble upon a document from seventh grade history class

It is about immigration

I read of the difficulties my mother faced coming here from China

When I interviewed her as a twelve year old all those years ago

She says one of the greatest difficulties about living here

Among all other things

Was that she really wanted watermelon

But it was too heavy

And she didn’t have a car

Once she told me her professor had her write an “about me” essay

So she wrote about how when she was younger

Growing up poor in China, she wanted to marry a watermelon man

So she could always have never ending amounts of watermelon to eat

I feel so foolish now

For fighting with her, for all the arguments and the times I stormed out of the house like an angry brat

My mother is not so complicated after all

How lucky am I, for all the times she has cut watermelon for me? Fed me?

My mother is turning 50 soon

She is as old as my high school, who was born in 1972

My mother, 1973

Neither of whom do I like very much

Both of which I am excited to leave

But now I understand her, and can see how great her love for me is

That she would go to Costco, leave China to America,

To buy me a watermelon

And smile, knowing there was no longer a shortage or obstacle to eat

The Watermelon-less days are over

Look in the mirror.

You carry your mother’s face, and her mother’s face, and her mother before her

You are the product of centuries and generations of love

Do not criticize the home you are

Do not criticize the vessel that keeps you safe

Love her, cherish her

She is why you walk, sing, dance, feel

You will only have her once

Take care of her

Just as she works tirelessly

To take care of you

I’ve always been more adept with chopsticks

Than I ever was with the grill

I dreamed more in Chinese

Than I ever did in English

I’ve always had more Asian friends

Than I ever did White

I saw China as a home

More than I ever did America

But both halves

Are a part of me

My mother, stitched in the silk of Ma’an shan and borne of the fire of a dragon

My father, blood spilt of the red, teeth gnashed as the white, eyes swimming of the blue

My mother, characters and pinyin, poems and folk dance lessons

My father, movies and sports games, baseball and accounting

My parents were so different, my heritage so mixed

But they were united in their love for math, their analytical ways of thinking, their perception of life as a zero sum game

Maybe something along the way

In the blood, the DNA

Altered me, changed me, made me so different from them

I loved English, I loved writing, I loved film

I was humanities, and they were STEM

I was their daughter

And I was not them.

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