I heard my mother laugh today. Briefly, I felt the need for her to love me. The desire to ask if she ever cared arose within me, but I was wise enough to suppress it. Soon after, I grew sick of her presence. This resentment is protective, I know.
A new dawn is not possible, when I keep reusing my first calendar.
I wonder if I am as difficult to care about, as my mother. A curse is passed on, if not contained or eliminated. It reaches far, and poisons thoroughly. So then, we are much alike. I have learned her ways best, by focusing on them. I stared, and I imitated. The differences are now few, and superficial.
She and I, we exist below the surface.