My mom wasn’t right about anything until eighteen years and a cigarette on the roof later when a boy who carved my name into a wooden boat dock with a pocket knife asked what I want to be when I grow up.
“Nothing like my Mother”
Escaped from my ego, slid from my tongue, with the ease of a block of ice in the driest mouth. I hovered above my body within the safety of the night sky long enough to see right through my worst fears; Who am I if not a daughter? Who am I if I break my tattered heart and poisonous promise to myself by having a daughter?
Who am I if not the sum of the parts and pots and pans of a woman who knew better than to park her life and stroller anywhere other than the Florida heat? She loves it here.
Who am I if not ready to scale buildings, Hospital parking decks where construction paper angels listen to me talk about her, matching my (bruised, not broken) excitement to see Her again (they will pick us up if you drop us off, Mom).
Who am I if not howling at the moon from the God Forsaken airplane bathroom,
and I have to hope my words hold enough power so The Good People hear me tell them she can only run so many marathons on a sprained ankle, and of course she is doing her best, but please be patient because she has to get her oil changed before making that kind of trip, and What kind of daughter am I if not the voice speaking through her tired tongue, cold as ice, when she has finally read every bedtime story and I have no choice but to smoke my final, juvenile vice.
Who am I if not a 3 AM pat on the back for successfully making it to Friday night without a proper meal? Who am I if not head over heels in love with what makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside? Sunshine to melt my goosebumps, a hand to hold the light, a roof to take the drag upon: the warmth of my bed enough to comfort an empty tummy through the harshness of the night.
I am my mother’s daughter when I clean because I’m depressed, and cry when over stimulated. I skip meals and tell everyone I “forgot”. I feel my chest heavy with anxiety. I do not ask to be medicated. I am the strong one. The pillar. And I read a book that reminds me of her, but also of me. I hold no sympathy for her, only anger. I did not ask what made her react this why, only why that was her only reaction. I identify her trauma responses, but can’t find the solution to my own. I understand her, but hate the traits she has given me. And intergenerational trauma is real, so if I was in my mother when she was in her mother, and my daughter was in my mother when I was in her, then what is a clean slait for any of us? when they say, we become more like our mothers the older we get, do we inherit their ability to bow, and bend, and break but never make a sound? But if I am my mother’s trauma, do I scream uncontrollably because my life isn’t in my palms? I swore to never be the woman that takes a man’s fist, but my own fist is in my mouth as I look into the mirror and ache to shatter it. Am I my mother’s trauma when I forgive a man for treating me like I am invaluable? Am I my mother’s daughter when I half-jokingly prepare to give up on my dreams, just to be half-heartedly loved? And I pride myself in knowing that I can tell when someone is manipulating me, but then just as shamelessly ask to be manipulated; to be told that I am loved even if it is a lie. Where is the sense in being senseless in the name of love? Am I my mother’s daughter when I overshare to a stranger because no one I love, loves me back enough to listen? And if I am a vessel of trauma, what will my daughter be? Am I my mother’s trauma when I yearn to be with someone that does not even respect me? And if this is all my mother’s, then am I my father’s daughter when I look at my mother in detest over the destiny that she has handed over to me?
Mother says it’s easy to fall in love but hard to love, and that they are two largely different things. She said she never fell in love with me; she just loved me, and I understood exactly why a mother’s love persists in all the places where others subside.
I always think of you before I fall asleep. The words you said, the way you looked. The things we laughed about, the silent moments we shared. And when I dream, I’ll dream of you. Because it’s about you, it’s always about you.
ALT