It’s so stupid how out of no where it hits you. This wave of sorrow and guilt for something that isn’t even your fault. How tears eat away at brown eyes and you remember when your co-worker made you cry. How it was nothing in particular but really it was the weight of the whole world that made you crack. And how you wished you had just said it, “But my mom! My mom she’s—” And slammed the receiver down. But of course, the words never came.
You can articulate so well who you don’t want to be. That doesn’t make it feel any more fair or any more right. These tears they soothe, they burn, they heal. It makes the new skin itch no less. Are you sitting in this present enough? This pain? Do you feel each cell of your skin as you grow?
You are so much more than she was. And I wish I knew why that can’t comfort you. Why instead that stirs your anger, sinks you in sadness. If only the idea of a mother could come along—some other mother—someone else’s mother–and soothe you. Wrap you up and love you. Banish this nightmare. If only
you had your mother.