It's the same thing over and over and over again. We fight, Mama. Almost every day. We argue and bicker about the silliest things. The least important issues.
Then, when something completely and utterly fails us, we tell everyone how we truly feel, except each other.
I don't know what or why I'm writing. I suppose I just have to get this off my chest.
A friend of mine once said she knew that my crude tongue plus the power of the pen could slice any being in half, like no sword could.
Now I know why.
You apologized, Mama. Crying, over the phone, you apologized for trying to end an argument I began with some stupid comment about a soccer game.
I came back with, "Yeah, you say this so that next time, when you tell me to act 'my age', and then throw a fit and kick and scream and spew out curse words, I'll know you at least felt 'sorry' about it once."
As maliciously good as I felt when I heard you sniffle and hang up after that, as sweetly as those vengeful words did exactly what I wanted them to do . . .
You're my mother.
The mother who, through a long, labor-demanding depression after her miscarriage, decided she would give childbirth yet another try. The mother who, with as little money as she had, bought a house, with her husband, so her little girl would be born in a house, and not an old apartment. The mother who, in the end, would go to any extent, do anything, defeat any monster, for me.
Mama, even though there are qualities about us that we don't necessarily have to like about each other, whether it be my sharp tongue, your temper, or whatever . . .
The bond between us is more than just maternal instinct.
We're not animals. We should stop treating each other as such.
What we have is worth more than that; you're worth more than that.
I don't know where I'm going with this. So I suppose I'll stop here, and tell you that, beneath every insult, beneath every yell, beneath every roll of the eyes, beneath every tapping of my foot, beneath every time I cross my arms and exhale, beneath every little thing that I do that annoys the hell out of you . . .
There is love. My Mama.
Then, when something completely and utterly fails us, we tell everyone how we truly feel, except each other.
I don't know what or why I'm writing. I suppose I just have to get this off my chest.
A friend of mine once said she knew that my crude tongue plus the power of the pen could slice any being in half, like no sword could.
Now I know why.
You apologized, Mama. Crying, over the phone, you apologized for trying to end an argument I began with some stupid comment about a soccer game.
I came back with, "Yeah, you say this so that next time, when you tell me to act 'my age', and then throw a fit and kick and scream and spew out curse words, I'll know you at least felt 'sorry' about it once."
As maliciously good as I felt when I heard you sniffle and hang up after that, as sweetly as those vengeful words did exactly what I wanted them to do . . .
You're my mother.
The mother who, through a long, labor-demanding depression after her miscarriage, decided she would give childbirth yet another try. The mother who, with as little money as she had, bought a house, with her husband, so her little girl would be born in a house, and not an old apartment. The mother who, in the end, would go to any extent, do anything, defeat any monster, for me.
Mama, even though there are qualities about us that we don't necessarily have to like about each other, whether it be my sharp tongue, your temper, or whatever . . .
The bond between us is more than just maternal instinct.
We're not animals. We should stop treating each other as such.
What we have is worth more than that; you're worth more than that.
I don't know where I'm going with this. So I suppose I'll stop here, and tell you that, beneath every insult, beneath every yell, beneath every roll of the eyes, beneath every tapping of my foot, beneath every time I cross my arms and exhale, beneath every little thing that I do that annoys the hell out of you . . .
There is love. My Mama.
