Her thoughts are distant.

The warmth is close.

Encompassing wanting and hunger,

I root for nourishment,

Longing for security, closeness of a faceless mother.

Was mother relaxed as I climbed into her lap? 

Did I root for her breast? 

Did I know that this was the last latch, the last root of mother and land?

I still hunger for her

I still long for her

I still want her

There is a sadness that washes over me of no memory of the face of my mother.

Was our closeness full of hope, as mine was with my own children?

Was there safety in my mother’s lap?

As I nursed, were there loving glances like I shared with my own children?

I still hunger for her

I still long for her

I still want her

I want to know her. 

I want to run my fingers around her lips, eyes, and nose,

To know her smell, to feel her warmth.

I still hunger for her

I still long for her

I still want her