further down the rabbit hole

Last night, at 3AM, my mom made scrambled eggs, scrapple, and toast. I would’ve been angry...

Fri, 24 May 2013 00:03:00 -0400

Last night, at 3AM, my mom made scrambled eggs, scrapple, and toast. I would’ve been angry that she woke me, but no one scrambles an egg like my mom.

While I sat on the kitchen counter to eat, she told me about 1973. She told me about being 18-years-old. She told me about the time she saw Bruce Springsteen play the Main Point in Bryn Mawr. She told me that the Main Point served nothing but homemade baked goods - and not even the good kind.

My mom calls me Sarabelle, and Sissy, and recently - inexplicably - Boots.

I wish that my mom wasn’t sick. I wish that my mom was sick in a way that made sense. I wish that she wasn’t so often demanding and manipulative and even - now and then - downright cruel. I wish that there was more I could do. I wish that I wasn’t so exhausted from doing so much already.

I have been taking care of other people for so long now that I have started to forget myself.

I wish that last sentence didn’t make me feel like a resentful, selfish piece of shit. I wish that I had the words for how much I love her and how grateful I am to her.

And so, this is my project. This is my education. This is my life. Sometimes it is so hard and sometimes it is so lovely - in equal measure - that sometimes I feel like my heart will burst.

Bursting, of course, always better than breaking.

I wish that I wasn’t so guarded. I wish that I knew the right ways to tell you. I wish that I didn’t anticipate the judgment and the impatience and all of the well-not-my-problems. I wish that the details were irrelevant.

My mom taught me to drive in the same make and model that she drove when The Boss was The Opening Act. I wish now that we could go around the bend just to get a look at the other side. Mostly, I wish that these two lanes will take us anywhere.