Tug of War

A photograph.

Mother and I stand on shore, a short pier propels

into the water. Mother is tall, willowy, her skirt billows in a breeze,

her hair is subtly curled, blown back from her scowling face.

She clasps my hand, peers down at me.

I am five years old, heels dug into the sand,

my face turned, tugging away, arm taut.

I don’t want my hand in hers.

She will pull me to the edge. I don’t want

to go there. I want to run away from the water.

It will swallow me. Gulp me whole. Make me disappear.

She doesn’t understand.

She forces me to go where I don’t want to go.

My mother.

I feel resistance in my little body.

I suffer my fear. Did I fear the water?

Or did I fear my mother?

She did not know. She did not understand.

She forced me to experience what she enjoyed,

withered my hope, fueled my fear.

She never understood.

I never stopped resisting.

Even at her end, I drew back.

Now.

Only now, decades after her death,

do I at last grasp—not what she took—

but what she gave.

Only now can I reconcile

her pulling, my tugging, her demanding

to guide me boldly into the deep.