More than 17 years ago, on your last day,
you left your “Sabbath…Study Guide” open
to a page on forgiveness;
you were only a few years older than I am now.
Still, your multitude of sad, unspoken words
rise up from the depth of our shared
her-story and haunt my hours.
Mother, Mutti, it was never your fault.
Though it is no longer a misfortune
to be born in a family that did not
produce first born male heirs but daughters,
the guilty consequence remained for generations.
In spite of all odds, thanks to you,
I survived Hitler, as well as Stalin’s starvation camps.
And today, as a rough, fearful winter continues to invade
this spring, I release an ancient anger to honor you.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
April 4, 2018