To My Son

You are my son, and yet not mine,
For Life has only loaned you to me for this little while
That we might learn some lessons failed in long ago.
If we have learned them well, I cannot judge,
Who see but this small segment of the whole.
I only know that I have loved you well,
And sometimes, or so I think, have loved you wisely,
And I have sought to give you strength,
And that clean bravery which dares to do
The things the world derides,
And I have tried to set you free from faults which bind,
And together we have walked a little way
Along the Path which leads to Life.
I know that I have failed in many ways
To build my dream-ideal of motherhood,
And yet I also know
That by these very failures you will learn.
Where not to tread.
And so, my son, I set you free;
I loose my hand from yours,
That you may walk alone.
My mother-work is done:
My trust is given back to That which gave,
For you have come to manhood’s open plain
And need my guiding hand no more,
Until the turning Wheel shall bring us back again
To learn new lessons in a land as yet unborn
And in that time, I wonder, shall we be only friends,
Or will I carry you another time beneath my heart?

--Rona Morris Workman