Mother

I was untimely plucked, apparently.
That's the nice way of saying I was premature.
Slithered from the womb a month or so in advance,
and filled my lungs with air,
and shouted bloody murder at my mother.
She must have been quite a sight.
Nineteen years of age she was, curly hair -
beautiful, but tired.
I doubt I was an easy birth,
I've never been an easy anything.
And she was practically a child herself.

By the time I was aware of her
(that is, as a person
and not just a food factory)
she was in her mid-twenties.
I assumed that all adults were this young,
This vibrant,
this alive.
Other kids had parents of an age
where flesh begins to sag and fun to fade,
and for my youthful mother I've always
been glad.
Even if, a lot of the time, times were sad.

She was many things, over the years -
provider, protector, destroyer, failure.
I never knew much about her past,
beyond that she was a mother.
I've never wished for another -
aside from when she let me suffer
without a pang of guilt, with tears only for herself,
without a mutter.
But that passed.
I knew she had a sordid past,
but the scars of those days couldn't last,
and she was as mum on them as she was Mum.

Over time, things changed.
Once I left, I became an equal -
perhaps I'm flattering myself there.
Truer to say that there was never a sequel,
I'm the firstborn, the favorite son -
for now, anyway, the others need time,
as their lives have only just begun.
But now I'm a shoulder to lean on,
and a voice to be heeded
by the woman who bore me
and helped me when needed.