This Must Be Where Mothers Go

As mothers of children who have died, we want to be understood as we trek through this journey of bereavement. I hope my poem speaks of the need we have to remember our children, to doubt, to grieve, and most importantly, to love.

This Must Be Where Mothers Go

This must be where mothers go
flowers fresh upon the grass
hiding the heavy soil
pounded by remorse and guilt

Where cloudy eyes and misty cheeks
see no light and lack the warmth
as questions of doubt fill
every labored breath.

This must be where mothers go
recalling horrifying nightmares
captured in the disbelief
that it could happen to them.

Yet--one touch, a whisper, a "tell me"
and the circle widens to radiate
the soul lifting, the sun
pushes back threatening clouds.

No strangers, these women speak
until soon, memories of each child
fill the stars as love abounds
free and stronger than any sorrow.

A landmark, the sacred tree where
comfort swells as leaves rustle
Mothers remember their hands
once held all that was precious.

Here the children still dance
now in fragile hearts
where names are spoken
Nothing dies, where mothers go.

~ Alice J. Wisler