I don’t know, yet, quite what I’m doing with this writing. I want to tell her about it, and I can’t; I just want to say the words to her, and hear her patience on the other end of the phone. It used to annoy me when I’d call her, needing to talk, and there would be no substantive response, but that was years ago, and I was both a lot stupider and a lot needier then. Things change.
You’ve gone so far beyond us, she said once, not that long
ago, and I caught my breath and felt her sentence tumble into me, hitting rocks
on the way down. I’d never thought she felt that way, but it was the
explanation for why she felt it difficult to respond in kind. I had left, and done new things, in places
unfamiliar and strange, it was true, but I never felt like there was some
comparison or judgment to be made: they were living their life and I was living
mine. Now her words made me picture her very far away, waving to me, a small
form in the far distance, but then I realized that was me looking through her
eyes. I’d felt like we were walking side
by side; her opinion was valid; I always respected it. I tried to tell her
that. It’s not easy, on the phone.
Beth, you honor your mother greatly through this project. The love between you is very tangibly felt through this lyrical writing.
Posted by: Bitterroot | November 28, 2006 at 12:27 AM
(o)
Posted by: Pica | November 28, 2006 at 10:02 AM
(o)
Posted by: dale | November 28, 2006 at 11:33 PM
The poignancy here is piercing,probably all the moreso because I miss my mother. We're estranged. There's just so many times I can try to connect.
I fervently hope it happens moreso for you. (I'm here via MB's blogroll.)
Your blog looks intriguing. I shall return to drink more of your words.
(Congrads on your book! Human rights issues are important to me.)
Posted by: GEL | November 29, 2006 at 04:52 AM