Here’s the thing with writing about my mother, which has been more difficult than writing about anyone else in my life: she’s not made for words.
She’s made for looks that read you and never judge, for patience while you tell a story that she’s heard before, for getting what she wants and getting it done. She’s made for touches that will cure you and she’s made for cries that you will never see.
I can’t criticise her nor publicise or glorify her. I can’t escape her, and when I get far, I can’t breathe.
I have nightmares about her not being around anymore.
She’s the closest thing I know and have experienced to a human being. She has those extra antennae that can sense the clouds caressing each other, and hear your secrets hovering about your head. She reminds me of London weather; So many things all at once and so mysteriously haunting.
My dad says I’m like her a lot.
She says I’m like my dad.
I just can’t tell.
I can’t possibly write about her. . .