Sunday, November 13

okay, I did a thing

A thing is what one does when someone else cannot see one doing it, such as me over to my ma's. Her small back is turned with her nose inside a glass of water, a blade of sunlight covers her eyes, and I'm out the door carrying a small bag of trash and one of the elephants in the room. I manage, I believe, to throw away a piece of junk. I do this as one does a thing: sneakily. 

I have sneakily thrown away my ma's junk, piece by piece, as is my purgatory for returning to live near her, for pining for a mother's love I suppose.

I've found other love akin to a thing or I have known love before so truly intimate I cannot accept a thing less. If you have lived for years without love, you know what it is. If you're not denied it, you take it so for granted you don't know how to begin to express love. 

A thing sneakily is nitpicky and unfeeling, parted down the middle. I recognize this. I felt parted down the middle driving the elephant out of my mother's one bedroom, subsidized apartment. She spends a great deal of time alone and I know it's that part of her I inherited. I would rather spend time alone than be among people without love.


  1. Gina, I suspect you and I could have a really interesting and long conversation about our mothers and then swear we might actually be long-lost sisters of some sort. I long ago accepted that my mother's inability to love anything more than herself was her failing and not some shortcoming of mine ( or any of the other wonderful people who have crossed her path), and live has been easier since then. When she is gone, I will write some more, and it will make for some great storytelling. That will be my sneaky thing, but I love yours. xx

  2. Maybe you are doing her a favour, Gina. Does she ever notice when you do a 'thing' like that? My current writing project is my 'thing' about my mother. Still, I sometimes think I am trying to make a kind of peace with her in the process. We had no contact for the twenty years before she died. I don't have to be sneaky now, but I do feel a kind of disconnection when I write about her. It helps. My fictional mother is probably the mother I would have liked to have.

  3. Gina, I think it is ok that you are discretely going through things. It may be some type of cleansing for you, going through stuff, maybe having memories. I felt that way, My Dad never wanted to go through his "stuff", and I found some peace, and closeness when I did so. Found some very cool things. odd I know.
    On the opposite, My Mom did the same for herself in her later years, very discretely, going through her things, never telling us kids. We found out after the fact. And she never let on the time we took care of her, she had everything "spelled out", for none to worry.
    Items we found after, brought smiles, it took some time to find those smiles, but they were good surprises.
    My Dad! he had hid way in the back of a closet, way in the back, some 8mm videos from my parents early years, and of us kids as babies, of vacations and just general life stuff. It was like finding some great discovery. It was. I had to reach and through webs and stuff, to find this little metal box. Wonder if he did that on purpose?

    Me, I like time alone. I really do. And, Gina, quite well phrased, Id rather be alone than with people without love. I am ok being alone, I don't feel "lonely", nor "alone". I feel content.