She’s my mother, and I should love her thoroughly and unconditionally, and I hate myself for not loving her. But instead, I’m fascinated by her in all of her unwavering cruelty.
Beautiful, charming, arrogant, she has always been an enigma to me. A puzzle who has driven countless men to madness.
My mother, the saint.
My mother, the tormentor.
She carried me in her womb and spat me out into the world like a watermelon seed, left my flimsy ego in the dirt. Left me to burrow into the earth myself, to put down roots on my own and grow. When my flesh looked promising, she plucked me from the comfort of my soil, only to consume anything I had to offer her and discarded the rest of me raw and exposed and withering in the heat.
I was simply thrilled she’d noticed me.
I don’t mourn for any lost relationship. There was never one to lose, but I grieve the loss of what could have been, had she let it — had she tried. I want to shake her, to tell her how things used to be, but she won’t remember. There’s nothing to remember.
Instead, I’ll do what I’ve always done — learn to mourn the living.