My mother would tell you, I’m wild.
That I’m not quite ‘right’ and she thought she’d made all the best choices possible while rising me.
My mom would tell you:
“He’s a bit strange, funny sometimes… Has a lot of potential- he’s wasting?”
She’ll tell you,
“He is handsome. But, he’s never had a girlfriend. I have some questions and lots of doubt.”
My mom will tell you that I drink too much and that she worries about me living alone.
My mother won’t tell you that my wanting to live alone started in my youth- at times she could not stand the sight of me.
My mom wouldn’t hesitate to tell you she hated the only person that had the guts to call me a friend.
My mom will tell you,
“He needed to be more masculine- he is supposed to become a man…”
“As a child I hit him far too much…”
Mom will probably forgo that detail.
And there is so much more to be said:
“He’s far from perfect- much closer to dead.”
She never tolerated ignorance too fearful of the embarrassment.
“He’s few times made me proud. Straight A’s was all I could count on.” She’ll say.
“And I’m not sure of what he’s searching for, but help… I’m out of reach.”
Mom and I don’t speak…
We’ve built a strong disconnection.
She won’t say she didn’t mean to place my sibling over me,
But, they were better.
She’ll tell you I wasn’t grateful, it’s likely I wasn’t- I was a child.
Mom will tell you she was- is the greatest mother.
All-the-while hating being mine.