Our Mother, Gone: Part II; Thank You, Julie Andrews

Our mother,




there she was:

a singing sister,

with spun gold hair,

tender blue eyes,


superior sewing skills.


Never depressed.

Never doubtful.

Never duplicitous.


Forever distant,

Forever perfect.


We sat and watched her sing

and smile,

from the huge screen,

over and over and over.

Dad obliged,

taking us to the movie theater,

a dozen times.

It was clear,

we needed some kind

of mother.


There were no photos

of mop-top boys

on my wall,



The void set by

your disability,

the one that

you would never


the one that

destroyed your

ability to love us,

had to be filled.


And it was.

Not entirely.

That perfect mother

would always be




I believe,

Julie Andrews,

helped us through,

to the other side


our longing.




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