Bound

There are two kinds of people, my mother told me;

the ones who love Jane Eyre

and those loving Wuthering Heights.

I, a quivering blob of unbridled emotion,

craved the ascetic honesty of Jane,

while my mother, pragmatic, prone to habit-formation,

sought the messy passion of Katherine.

(Mr. Rochester and Heathcliff are oddly interchangeable).

I considered this

an idiosyncratic line of demarcation,

its application peculiar to the two of us,

but now I see

a universal truth:

We want what is wanting.

Our dual allegiances were never bones of contention,

or flashpoints for literary argument.

My mother and I were staunch allies,

drifting off to our bedrooms,

books in hand.

My mother dreamed of pepper while I craved salt.

We both needed to eat.

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