Sometimes I think about my mother as a child
Skinny and shivering in a house without food, caring for two younger siblings
I think of how she poured love into every house we lived in
Every bit of lace, every flower of picture meant to make us feel safe
I think about how I ripped her apart for every mistake she made
How angry I was, every cruel thing I said that makes my mouth taste like bile to remember.
How I pushed and pushed.
Scratched and clawed. Not wanting to be loved. Wanting to be loved more. Wanting her to leave me alone. Needing her to pay attention to me.
I think about how she never made us share rooms, always let us have our space because she never did.
How young she was when she had my sister
I think about all the things she had to go through and everything she missed
How she doesn’t blame us
How she hates being touched but let’s me cling to her, cry into her shoulder or her lap.
How her love could encircle all of us.
I actually read this to my mom this Christmas. We had a very rocky and tense relationship when I was younger and now our relationship is very important to me. She appreciated it and actually asked me to send her a copy.
She’s also an incredibly well-read woman who loves literature so she appreciated that I had wrote her something.
Given that she’s struggling it meant a lot to make her happy. So I thought I’d post it here too.