Each time I fit a new piece
into the changing pattern of my life
I want to go to her, show it to her,
as the sullen five-year-old in my school photos
would bring home coloured scribbles,
as the insecure fifteen-year-old that was me
paraded spotty suitors for her to see.
I want to hear her say
what I would not let her tell me then:
'I told you so.
At last you've seen the light.'
I want to tell her
what I never told her while she lived:
'Yes, Mum, you were right.'
Janice Windle
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-mother-i-want-to-tell-her/
