When I was born, my mother counted all ten of my fingers and all ten of my toes.
When I was a child, my mother taught me how to count to ten.
I am now an adult. I can count to ten. I can count how many times my mother has said I love you on only one hand.
So it seems: I do not need my other hand. I do not need my other hand to count. I do not need those other five fingers. I did not have to learn how to count to ten.
I do not need my hand the way I don’t need my mother’s love.
I can survive this way, but is surviving the same as living?
The nurse said you only need to give a child breast milk and love.
But I cannot remember the taste of the milk that nurtured me. I cannot remember the feeling of being loved.
I do not know that feeling. What it feels to be your mother’s beloved.
Every year Mother’s Day arrives and I still don’t know the date.
Apathy (noun): lack of interest, enthusiasm or concern.
It is better to be hated than be treated apathetically. I have learned, the way I learned how to count to ten, that the silence when you’re begging for your mother to say ‘I love you’ is worse.
Every year Mother’s Day arrives and I still don’t know the date.
Every year I hope my relationship with my mother does not stay the same.
Beloved (noun): a person who is greatly loved
I am now an adult. I can count to ten.
My mother has said I love you twice this year and that is getting closer: to ten.
My mother cries for another home that she fled, for me.
About the author
Rerose Roro is an emerging South Sudanese-Australian writer raised in Geelong and the South-East suburbs of Melbourne. Rerose has always had a passion for writing and literature across many mediums, including poetry and creative writing. Rerose won her regional heat for Australian Poetry Slam in 2019 and came third as runner up in State Finals.