in dedication to summer rain and the smell of petrichor
— Frida Kahlo, The Letters of Frida Kahlo: Cartas Apasionadas
Mary Oliver, from long life: essays and other writings
I'm ashamed to admit that I still like him even after all that happened
my painful never ending desire to be beautiful is the most self destructive thing about me
— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra
[I love you. Infinitely and inexpressibly. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and here I am writing this. My love, my happiness.]
my mom was once a scared girl, too. though it’s likely, it’s hard to imagine. I sit in the attic and pour over every childhood picture of her I can find. my mother, before her sharp tongue and manicured eyebrows. before three kids and a divorce settlement. before her lookalike Hepburn haircut or even a driver’s license. how human the experience of what’s wrong with me, who am I, could I be someone worth liking? when did it worry her most? where were her hiding places? I wonder if she was the journaling type—devout in everyday cursive or quick, casual updates; stuck ticket stubs and Polaroids. the names of her heartbreaks and high school bullies. I wonder if there was ever a runaway plan she crafted and never pulled the trigger to. how many ways she pictured forever turning out. I think there’s a chance my mom is still a scared girl, though we are different in our practice. I know a cold shoulder feels easier than confrontation. under the sting of her raised voice, I hear the terror in admitting she wants to be needed. how do I tell her we are speaking the same mother tongue, but become so lost in translation.