Swamp Robin

“Swamp robins don’t hang around waiting for their folks to feed ’em and protect ’em from swamp snakes and muskrats. No siree, Bob. When those little birds fall from their nests, they light out on their own without even worrying about the ways or shortcomings of their mamas and papas. They’re feisty little tykes. Even before they have all their feathers, they’re out there making a name for themselves and lookin’ out for their own future.”

—John Cromwell (a.k.a. Poppy)

Swamp Robin

I held her in my arms when she called my name. I felt her last breath on my cheek and I knew her spirit had flown free. We were alone, just we two, as we were the moment I was born. Now she lay dead, my fingers entwined with hers, still warm. My sobs have calmed, my tears dried as I sit quietly beside her bed struggling to absorb the reality of her passing. Even in death Lizzie’s face is still lovely, the skin smooth and tight over the fine bones. I stroke her cheek and brush back a few strands of thin white hair from her forehead; an intimate touch she rarely allowed in life.

I reflect on the grievous circumstances of our relationship from the beginning of my life until the day my mother died. Although she had never confided this to me or asked my forgiveness for it, I couldn’t have known as a child that it was her misplaced resentment of me that overwhelmed her mothering instincts. Although I came to understand this much later, our hostilities continued to grow even as I passed from adolescence to womanhood. I’d learned the secret she attempted to take to her grave, the shame of my illegitimate birth that she allowed to destroy her self-worth, to bring her down beyond redemption. My very existence was so hateful to her that she refused to speak my father’s name—he, a white, married, business man; she, a mulatto servant girl. He had turned his back on her, leaving her to endure the malicious and slanderous tongues of a small town. Convinced that hers was the blackest of sins, Lizzie tasted the bitterness each time I held out my tiny fingers for a kiss. She must have seen something in my eyes, the shape of my face, the bow of my lips that reminded her of him and she hated me for it. I had no one to protect me, and I endured her abuse until I was old enough to make the decision to flee. When the grit of defiance gave me the backbone I needed, I escaped to my grandparents’ home, a safe three hundred and fifty miles away. 

My mother and I lived most of my life apart and in silence after that terrible time together. We had never shared confidences, she and I. We had never talked, laughed or even cried together. We had never soothed each other’s heart, shared our inner fears, or divulged any of the truths that would have meant so much to me. An enigma, she was aloof and closed herself off from my affection. We became strangers, even enemies when she attempted to thwart my efforts to educate myself. And when I succeeded, my life and hers took opposite paths that distanced us beyond all communication as if we’d lived millions of miles and ages apart.

These differences―between what I was determined to achieve in my life and what her life had become―grew and became weapons that we used to hurt each other. I tried not to dwell on her cruelty, her lack of attention and her resentment as I grew to resemble her in looks.  The love I craved came from elsewhere, from her own estranged mother who took her place in my heart, who kept me safe and gave me what I needed.

Only my advancing years and my mother’s terminal illness gave me the courage to approach her one last time—and yes, with some trepidation at first. But she was an old lady then; ill, weak, and no longer able to hurt me. Still, I was determined to let her speak first, perhaps to ask my forgiveness for her transgressions against me. Her response at seeing me after so long a time was not effusive. Yet, her attitude was friendly and cordial. There were gaps in our conversation when we approached a sensitive subject from our shared past, stopping just short of an explanation or an apology.

Small, powerless and fragile, her presence still demanded that I not become too familiar in my eagerness to express my love and forgiveness. The memory of how she had recoiled from my childhood attempts to show and receive affection gripped my heart with misgivings. She sensed my hesitation to touch her, and brought forth from under her pillow an old, yellowed birthday card, never mailed, and handed it to me. On the cover were the words, For a Much Loved Daughter. When I opened it, I read, ‘It was easy to see from the girl that you were, what a wonderful woman you’d be.  Love, from beginning to end, Mother.

The words stunned me and in a single moment opened a floodgate of tears of forgiveness for the many tragically wasted years. Our tears flowed freely and I kissed her lips and lay my head on the pillow next to hers. I felt her hand smooth my hair and caress my cheek. She whispered her last words: “Please, hold me.” I gathered her to my heart and she died in my arms.