Mother, Mother

Based on a prompt from Prompt & Happenstance.

Where others sought solace, I discovered the version of myself that I never wanted to be. My tarot reader tells me to search out my shadows in others. If she is my shadow, I will forever play in the darkness where no shadows can be produced. Certain memories uncoil from me like the tape unfurling from a cassette.

I could write my memories, and I might some day, but for now, know that her name was Abigail and I was a dove, looking to take flight. She had pinned my wings and cut my hair, so, like Sampson, I was weak. Frail. It was never Munchausen syndrome by proxy, but she left me questioning my abilities and identity.

This might just be a story an author pens. This might be autobiography.

My mother’s name was never Abigail, but I feel like I have to rinse my mouth out with soap when I say her name. It’s like how certain people feel licorice tastes. But is that not what a mother is? The taste of licorice, the feeling of shame. That heat in your stomach that makes you wonder if you were ever worthy of love.

We were never told explicitly what mothers were, but please tell me they can be more than shadows and clutched rosaries.

2 thoughts on “Mother, Mother

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