if they come in the night

If they come in the night
Long ago on a night of danger and vigil
a friend said, Why are you happy?
He explained (we lay together
on a cold hard floor) what prison
meant because he had done
time, and I talked of the death
of friends. Why are you happy
then, he asked, close to
angry.

I said, I like my life. If I
have to give it back, if they
take it from me, let me
not feel I wasted any, let me
not feel I forgot to love anyone
I meant to love, that I forgot
to give what I held in my hands,
that I forgot to do some little
piece of the work that wanted
to come through.
Sun and moonshine, starshine,
the muted light off the waters
of the bay at night, the white
light of the fog stealing in,
the first spears of morning
touching a face
I love. We all lose
everything. We lose
ourselves. We are lost.
Only what we manage to do
lasts, what love sculpts from us;
but what I count, my rubies, my
children, are those moments
wide open when I know clearly
who I am, who you are, what we
do, a marigold, an oakleaf, a meteor,
with all my senses hungry and filled
at once like a pitcher with light.
--Marge Piercy

I do feel I have wasted most of my life. My favorite part of my life was being a mom but, although my only child graduated with honors from an Ivy and appears to be having a thriving career, I don't get any credit for mothering her.  And losing her wiped me out.  Losing her might be what cancer is like:  the awareness of its presence in your body grows slowly.  I thought she'd come back for awhile. As I began to realize she was gone for good, I fell apart. If I was not a good mother to Katie Joy Kre, I am not a good anything. I'm nothing.