I think maybe no one warned my mother that babies almost always grow up and that when that happens, they almost always make mistakes.
She wanted me so bad; she wanted me so bad I can still feel her iron desire holding my bones in place, so bad that I still feel her pulling me towards the ocean by a thread.
I don’t know how or why or when I stopped making her happy, but suddenly there developed between us a negative exponential relationship: the more I grew, the less she loved me. The more I changed, the less she tried to get to know me.
The most painful downward sloping line, the one that threw darts at me with every point slapped on its graph, was the line that showed how the more I needed her, the less she wanted me.
She didn’t want me to be this big, this loud, this angry, this broken. I’m not tender and new anymore; I am her damaged goods. I am her baggage. I am a very sad scar on her belly that has taken twenty years to start fading away.
I am glad she taught me how to walk and spell my name and chew solid foods, and I am glad she kept me safe from Atlantic waves. I am grateful for the guidance she gave me when I was tiny, for the wisdom she imparted in me when I lacked the independence to dispute it.
I don’t wonder if she would still shelter me from the waves; I know she would. I only wonder if it would make her happy to do so anymore.
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