Mother

I almost never dream about her anymore. I think of her far less than I ever thought I would. I press the wound to see if it still hurts, and my thumb leaves a print that goes from white, to blush, right back to the olive skin tone I share with her. I’m surprised by how much it doesn’t hurt. Am I cold? Calloused? Or am I free?

Then there are the days that feel like I’m being ripped apart, limb by limb. I forget the vastness and endless depths of the pain until something seemingly unrelated tears open what I thought for sure was a healed scar.

It always comes back to that. An ugly domino effect crashing through my very existence, the source of which somehow never fails to be related to my “mother wound”. It’s not fair. It’s not fair to her. It’s not fair to anyone.

To be a father might be more manageable. The expectations… the societal standards and pressures are less. Dad’s are fun. They can come and go as they please. They get rewarded for sticking around. For merely trying, even if it’s…