I think of the mothers . . .

I think of the mothers
who have gone before me
who faced war and poverty and persecution
and remained calm
and steady
for their children.

I think of them cooking
and comforting,
their hands --
their bodies --
busy --
making a life,
the worry only showing
in their eyes
and in their minds.

I think of my ancestors --
immigrants --
leaving a world they knew
for one they didn’t
and how I cannot comprehend
their courage.

I think of the women on the homefront --

the frontier --

the bread line -- 
the back of the bus.

We see them

through history’s filter,

vessels of stoic strength

and bountiful hope,

celebrated by the poets

and the painters.

How could we think 

that was true?

For now I know

the uncertainty,

the fear,

that must have ravaged them.

because it is what  

I feel.

How, I want to know.

How did they face it?

How does a mother

hold her child

like nothing’s wrong

when everything is?

How does a mother

not fall apart

when her entire world
crumbles?

I think of the women --

the mothers --

the daughters –

and I ask them 

to teach me

how to appear calm

when the storm 

is inside.

I ask them to fill me

to comfort me,

to remind me

that it is okay to feel

and fear

and face the day

with questions

instead of answers.

For they have.  

And we will.