Poem for my Mother.

In her lifetime she has had many titles, 

Titles born before her, 

Titles granted to her.

Titles of imposition, 

Of possession, 

Titles that contractually oblige, 

That confine her.

Titles that raised me. 

These designations are important, 

Not necessarily to her, 

But to those who believe a woman needs reminding of her place.

The world concedes to believe that without our titles we cease to exist as fully-fledged individuals,

What could she be if she is not a worker, or a wife, a mother or a care giver in someone else’s life?

To live without attachment to your profession, 

Or to reside comfortably without alias, 

Is a terrifying prospect in a world that seeks to conscribe us, 

To a single designated lot. 

When people ask me what my mother does,

I say she is a gardener,

Not because the earth she repossesses affords her an income, but because that is her self-created title, and the one that I conscribe her.

When people ask me what my mother does, 

I say she crochets taxidermy, 

Not because there will ever be a growing market for such trivial hobbies, 

But because I see her fervours as far more defining than any title granted to her by a job. 

When I think of my mother, 

I think of a reading speed that I will never match and the carefully portioned segments of life that embellish the flowerbeds of our house.

Because her traits are more defining than her labours.  

And because of her I know that success is better quantified by the skills I have taught myself than by the profession that supports me. 

It is anticipated that aside from her titles a woman will have two names in her lifetime, 

One of authorship and one of propriety, 

But my mother had one, 

Because she was her own author, 

And the name was hers entirely.