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.
