You Mother

You know how this story goes. You didn’t want to end up like your mother, but you did. You said you didn’t want to grow up like her because she drove you crazy, but then one day, you’re standing there and you’re the one that’s crazy and you know, in your body, that you are your mother. You are her hands, her bones, her breath. Just like you said you never would be. And then, you have another thought, Your mother wasn’t so bad, wasn’t so crazy, so impossible. She was right, brilliant, even! But then, you start to wonder, which you is the right you? The you that never wanted to be your mother, or the you that, now your mother, is justifying being your mother by telling yourself that she wasn’t that bad after all?

Maybe this is what your mother wanted all along. She would make you not want to be her and, somehow, in the not wanting to be her, you end up her, the reverse psychology thing. But your mother was not that wicked, nor that psychological. She was only slightly depraved. She would say, That’s too expensive, and then she would say, Everyone deserves a dress like that! She would make light of very serious things when you needed her to look deeply in your eyes, and then she would look deeply in your eyes and say very serious things when you needed her to laugh. She would make underhanded comments about your body and then she would say, You have to love your body. And now, NOW YOU DO THE SAME FUCKING THING TO YOUR DAUGHTERS. You stand in the hallway outside their bedrooms and say, You’re not wearing that, are you? and then, in the next breath, you tell them, It’s not your job to take care of how people feel about what you’re wearing. You go to parties and laugh loudly because your mother, no you, believe that the best revenge is good living. Who are you avenging, you, your mother, hers? This story is so old. And it never ends. You don’t even know who you are anymore. You, you Mother.