12^th to 16^th of February

My mother died when I was 4 days old, this is a reflective poem about the mother I never knew. When I was born I was named Joseph Richard Mason, when adopted my name became Richard Joseph Kirk. In those fleeting moments, I was enveloped by a profound absence, a void that echoed through my childhood. Each anniversary serves as a reminder of the love unclaimed and the memories unwritten as I ponder the essence of a mother I never had the chance to know. Though my name has changed, the yearning for her presence remains, a silent companion throughout my journey, guiding me in ways unseen as I navigate the complexities of identity and belonging. In this reflection, I honour her memory, cherishing the bond that transcends time and space.

As spoken word, I have included the pauses…

---

I was four days old
when the world shifted.
A breath, a heartbeat,
a name spoken over me
and then silence (pause)
where a mother’s voice
should have been.

I have no memory of her,
yet she lives in the shape of my story:
in the date that returns each year
like a tide that knows its way home,
in the questions that linger
between what was felt (pause)
and what was never told.

My birth father, Joe,
stood somewhere in that landscape
a figure I could not see,
yet part of the thread
that wove me into being.
And there were others too:
Fred, Helen, Ann,
and Margaret
siblings whose lives ran alongside mine,
even when our paths
were scattered to different homes, (pause)
different names, (pause)
different stories. (pause)

They carried me to London,
arms that meant well,
though love can be a quiet thing
when you are small (short pause)
and longing for a face
you never knew.

I grew up learning
that absence has weight,
that a child can feel
out of place in his own house,
that being loved (pause)
and feeling loved (pause)

Perception and reality
are not always the same.

But today
on the anniversary of her leaving
I let myself imagine her. (pause)
Not as a shadow, (pause)
but as a woman who held me
for four brief days, (pause)
long enough to hope, (pause)
long enough to pray, (pause)
long enough to leave a tenderness
I still carry
even when I cannot name it.

So, here I stand,
a man shaped by loss
but not defined by it,
and I honour her.

For the life she gave,
for the love she never had time to show,
for the family whose names
still echo through my story,
for the thread that ties
Joseph and Richard
into one whole life.

Mother,
I remember you
the only way I can (pause)
by living, (pause)
by wondering, (pause)
and by letting this day
be gentle.

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© Richard J Kirk  – 2026.

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