Growing up, my siblings and I were left on our own to figure out how things worked. I learned what a condom was from the dictionary. I studied the secrets of applying lipstick and eyeshadow from Seventeen, and figured out how to ride the bus from our house to the mall. I read our dusty copy of Martha Stewart’s Christmas over and over, hoping to make those gold leaf gingerbread houses someday, somewhere.
I was desperate to learn how to live, how to make a life under the weight of the knowledge my mother tried to slough off—the missing history of her mother, the unhappiness of my parents’ marriage, the family stories she held so tightly to herself, to us.
“I don't know how to be a mom,” she wept to me, “so I have no idea of who I am supposed to be.”
Click here to read more on Patheos, the new host site of Good Letters.
Share This Event
You can email "To See Her More Clearly" by Copying and pasting this link into an email or instant message
or, clicking this link to email the link using your computer's email program.
These icons link to social networks where users can share and discover new webpages.
Add a Comment (comments will not appear until cleared by moderators)