Mother, Where Aren’t Thou?

By Laura Brigger

Mother, Where Aren’t Thou?

I've fallen into a ditch—I can't get out. The darkness is scary, and there are snakes about. The wind is bitter, my clothes are torn, My shoes have holes—so ragged and worn.

Oh, Mother, it's cold in here. If only you'd draw me out and hold me near. "Mother, won't you help me?" I yell so loud, But still, you stand there, entertaining a crowd.

You look over with barely a glance— "Hush, child, I'll be there first chance."

The rain pours generously; I float to the top. I grab for failing branches and pull myself up. Ragged and wet, I lay on the bank— One more moment, and I sank.

Mother, where art thou? I search, and you’re nowhere now.

I tend my wounds,

Replace my clothes,

And walk to where you smiled with those.

In the distance, I hear a sound—

Someone else has slipped way down.

A cry.

A slip.

A fall.

From the ditch, I hear your call:

“Child, where aren’t thou? I’ve fallen—I may die!”

“Hush, Mother.”