Our Many Fears

Mother

I remember seeing her when I was young. Some place when I was young. Sat in her breeze, watching as she blended a potion of lightening and thunder. It was a chaos I tell you, yet a chaos far enough away to be beautiful.
A controlled chaos, if you'd like. A natural firework display.

As I grew up, she seemed less important yet always present. Especially in the quiet times. Once again, I'd bathe in her breeze as she entered silently through the windows. Yet it was an unexpected welcome.
Or I'd climb one of her many creations, she truly was an unmatched artist after all.
I live in her canvas.

Yet, these are just memories of her. Now the present feels threatened. Her brushes are wearing out, and her paint is drying. The canvas has, after all, reached its end. I'm not quite sure what to do, if anything at all. I understand however, that it's partly me, the person next to me and the person next to them. She painted a playground, and we've ruined it all. Forgive me mother, as you've done nothing wrong.