An old song made me cry today.
It was one my mother used to play when I was a child; and some fond memories came through of a time I loved her without caution.
I thought for a moment that I missed her, but it was just a trick I play.
I miss the who I wish she was. I miss the thought of who I imagined her to be. I miss the game before I knew the rules and how I was always destined to lose.
I’ve reached the point of apathy where my mother is concerned, and treat her like a sharp razor. I know what she’s capable of. If I’m not careful with her, she will slice me wide open, and I will have no one to blame but myself.
After a moment I remembered the song wasn’t real. The memory, much like a myth or urban legend told so many times I believed it true — drifted away — and the sadness sunk into the quicksand of the past.
I cannot love my mother and feel worthy at the same time. I cannot trust her not to manipulate my desire for her to be something she never was, could, or will be.
I know this.
My heart just sometimes wishes I could.