Cherish Mother

Mother would say, “You’re going to hate me one day.”

I’d break my back to convince her of otherwise. There’s

something to adulthood: an inner compass, a knowledge

of wrongdoing. Why would I praise her for scarring me!

But it’s not so simple; for some minds are dearly affected,

where wrong means, “You need to see it from my

perspective.” Voices are loud. Drugs are used. Liquor is

water. “It’s not what I do, but what I tell you to do”;

and “Don’t talk to me that way, I’m your mother.” I

would ponder in darkness, amazed by contradiction. But

there are gifts: an addict will teach you; we must pay

attention, read books, and make comparisons. She would

pull me aside, converse a soul, even pass me a ring. We

got along on good days, where I was cautious, for moods

can swing. I type these things, wondering of a future,

attempting to intervene.