I dreamed about my mother last night. This happens when I haven’t seen her for a while. If I were a different person I would call it a visitation. That’s what it felt like: a visit. She wasn’t well but she was better, like the her of a few years ago. She knew who I was. We walked through roads around the water. She smiled at me. We said some words, not many. There weren’t many to say. We were together, smiling in the sunlight, finding comfort in each other’s company.
But this isn’t how it was a few years ago. This is the part I sometimes put out of my mind. Her running from me, hitting me, biting me, calling me names. Screaming at the top of her lungs. Me sitting around the corner, out of her sight, so she wouldn’t see me and turn to rage.
Thursday at the Farmer’s Market one of the women who takes care of my mother held a picture of her in my face. She told me she was doing better, gaining weight. She was guiltmongering. Like she knew the story. Like she knew who my mother was.