The day you found out your mother had cancer I held you.
The day of her first treatment I held you.
Through tears and pain,
I held you.
When none of the treatments worked
and the reality of impending death set in,
I held you.
I held you fiercely and tightly,
hoping my arms might convey the cocoon of security
I so desperately wanted to shelter you in.

I held you when you did not want to be held.

I held you at the funeral.
Surrounded by flowers and tears I held you.
I held you tight to hold you together,
for I feared that if I did not
I would also fall apart.

I held you when you did not want to be held.

Now,
six months later,
I never hold you.

Were my arms too tight?
Did they not comfort?
I guess I will never know.
Because now,
the only way you hold me
is at arms length.