Aaaaaah, my blog. My little home space. My big white box that connects me to about three dozen people who know me so well. The intimate audience of people whose questions about life are similar to mine.
I am back. Back at home. Back at my blog. Back at writing. Suffice to say I didn’t expect to be here again so soon, but all is well. There is no story to tell.
And so I am edging out on the tightrope I have been avoiding.
Many of my friends are confident — in a way I simply cannot be, me who is made of primarily confidence, especially in the face of uncertainty (see also, every post on this blog, my book, my everything) — that life is certain I should be writing.
Be a writer.
Be the light.
Be the questions.
I will try, my dear friends who honor me with your confidence and love. I will try. It begins today.
I always knew I would write about her. That much is clear. Now, whether that idea was my mother’s or mine, I still can’t say. Like many things between us, the boundaries of what was hers and mine—memories, personality traits, burdens—are hopelessly confused. Even now, after she’s long gone and a few of the facts about our fiction have risen to the surface.
She called me her “one and only,” and by that she meant daughter, mostly. Those words were both benediction and warning. That she had two sons mattered, too, and a husband as well—but not when she and I were in our fantasy world together, which was most of the time.
By most people’s account, my mother and I had the ideal mother-daughter relationship: close, confiding, we looked alike and we acted alike, creating commanding interactions wherever we went, gathering up people’s attentions like flowers tossed on the stage.
It was a romance we shared, my mother and me. Hopelessly in love with one another, freakishly intertwined. She was my best friend and her own worst enemy, and I spent my childhood trying to convince her she was worthy, to keep her alive, to make her see that she mattered so much, and not just to me.
Because I was never going to be enough to save her. But I tried. Oh, how I tried.
I took on the role of being her greatest fan, which only meant that later I would become her biggest disappointment. Truth is, I didn’t travel too far, moving from one pole to the other. She did instead, moving ever imperceptibly backward, until none of us in this world could reach her at all.
Not even me. Her precious, beloved daughter, her second chance, her everything….