I sit on the moon-dark side of motherhood

First this is just spun around in my brain and escaped out on "paper". The words and the scene were so odd I decided to post it. I thank God for my children. So it's not them in this doodle. Perhaps it was the newscast if the homeless shelter, the food banks, medicare and nursing homes, a movie about an alcoholic mom, all of that contrasted with the joyful music. Anyway, this is a "brain doodle". Nothing more--oh, and happy holidays!


I Sit on the Moon

I sit on the moon.
It is an arid and dusty place.
I shield my tear-stained face from the dust that billows
Over me, just me on this barren landscape.
I look in three directions, and I see space as far as I can see.

No one describes the space between the moon and
Earth the way it seems now. It is thick like fog and my body feels like it
Should move to the Earth. Yes, pulled to the Earth!

I  stand. I reach for the familiar planet, and I scream the longing is so strong for it.
But I stay firm on the desolate, dry soil of the moon.
I scream for hours, maybe years. I don’t know.
The ache for home never leaves me. My lungs and heart are raw
From the exertion of trying to get someone from home to see I am here.
I collapse against the odd, concrete, dusty soil, and I lay still.
My tears are just streaks on my dusty face. I have moved through
seven-hundred-seventy phases of the light on this side of the moon.
My breaths are still labored and come in gasps the terror has not left me.
If I should look at the Earth the unfathomable distance will drive me mad.
They will come get me has become less of a prayer and more an involuntary movement.
I no longer think about the words because I know no one is coming.
They could if they wanted to, but they don’t.
At home, perhaps they look at me through telescopes and feel superior because they have home.
I can’t get there. I can’t get home. So perhaps they are.
Tried, banished, and blamed by the ones that I thought would always love me.
And judged unfit. Not by the ones of authority, but by the ones that have the
gift.
Many times I heard, before exile to this barren empty place, I gave them life.
It could not be true for there is not greater hatred than this. The wind whips the dust around and stings my skin.
I dig my nails into the unnatural dirt. I won’t look back at the Earth. Home where my children sit.
Telling horror stories of the childhood they lived and the supposed sins against them.
My children are adults who must blame someone for what life had spat their way.
As adults they blame me for their actions and laying here so far from home.
My skin has thinned I’m almost bones.
I will die out here alone.
Banished, terrified and alone. .