novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- if everyone has problems why do mine seem so looming and permanent? a few years ago, when my mother found out i was bulimic, she wrote me a letter about her year in college -- a drab, sad nine months that she spent with her head in various toilets, purging. it was an epic letter, pages and pages long, part of it was even fashioned into a sonnet. (she won awards for her sonnets). after revealing this to me in passing, i found the letter in her bathroom and scanned it, thinking i'd read it the next day. she tore it up while i was sleeping. i wanted to keep it to remind me of her, then: her fear, her honesty ... her and of me and what i had drawn out of her. (i like to keep things, to hold on to them, everything i own has connotation) neither of us can vocalize succinctly what our emotions dictate; important thoughts are mostly unuttered and wholly unexplained because words pronounce themselves halfcocked, frightened and unsure of themselves. i wonder all the time if we'd be friends were she my age now. we'd look like sisters but would our moods sometimes mirror each others'? if she were my age now would she constantly become frustrated by speaking.... if she would be a crier. if she would trail off in the middles of sentences, waving her delicate hands slowly. would written words hold more weight than spoken for her? but when she was my age, she was a vixen who lived with her parents, juggling three boyfriends at the same time until she met my father. she married him for the lone reason that he adored her. perhaps she thought she wouldn't have to speak ever again, only the small stuff, the non-heart-rendered.
she's a beautiful person, my mother. she doesn't know how to say what she means so she just tells me that she loves me, over and over, and hopes it will be enough. 1:27 am - 06.18.02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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