After spreading the calamine lotion, that were the words from my last essay, and spreading it on thick over the effects of the poison ivy that society often has been to me, I am comfortable and ready to move on as if I had disposed of that swelling itch and it's purveyor, by the roots, well and surely. As if only...
It came to my attention the other night that my mother would have loved me no matter the disagreeable nature of what I had become. No matter the ache, no matter the change to her customary way of thinking, she would have loved me and have been as proud, no, way more proud, of what I had done than I. Putting aside all the social media computer high definition blogging obliquity as if it were as inscrutable as a cassette tape recorder, she would focus on whom and what she loved.
I wish I had carried my mother's superpower with me throughout my life, but there are times when simple events of coincidence assure me that once in a while I do embrace her and her love, and she is there as if never gone, but only away for a short while. In these small moments, I rejoice.
*phrasing of title from Tristram Shandy (I think I am happy to put forth all the knowledge I have as if 'twere my own except that of this master who coincidentally was not ill disposed himself in putting forth all the knowledge he had as if 'twere his own)
