Memories of Mother

It was late last night, I was staring at the ceiling
Thinking of words to describe this awkward feeling
It's not quite anger, not quite regret
Maybe there just isn't a word for it yet.

I'm trying to remember things from when I was small
To be perfectly honest, there's not much I recall
First thing I remember is seeing you yell
While you pushed Dad and told him to go to hell.

Next thing I remember is the day you got back here
After leaving me to go to Texas for a year
And I know I didn't recognize you, not a single bit
When I heard you were my mother, I sort of threw a fit.

Skip ahead a few years, I was in grade five
You said I was adopted, I said it was a lie
Imagine my surprise when I found out it was true
Possibly the only honest thing I've heard from you.

Lastly is the weekend I turned thirteen years old
Two a.m in Lancaster, January and cold
You were at the bar, with your boyfriend Jim or Ed
While your husband and kids were at home in their beds.

That's the night you were caught, but I'll spare the detail
I'll just say it's a wonder you didn't go to jail
I just want to know, why weren't you there?
When I needed you most, why didn't you care?

Four years have gone by, haven't seen you since
And I don't want to, the thought makes me wince.
Just thought you should know, the distance isn't from hate.
It just comes from knowing that for us, Mom, it's too late.