For some reason, the length of a generation served to diminish the sting and stain of, “I never wanted you” as it passed from my mother’s lips through my lanky child-body; because it was all the fault of HER mother. I don’t fully know why I was so willing and so desperate to forgive and rationalize the hurts my own mother doled out (both intentionally and un-). As I approach 30 of my own years of age and 4 of my daughter’s, fully grasping this phenomenon is lost to me.
“Mama, remember when I used to be a Superhero?”
“Yes, Kismet, I remember”
“Well, now I’m not because that is just too high for me to reach. Mama will you pick me up so I can feel like a Superhero again?” That I can do. Perhaps if a young me thought to expel the chill in my mother’s broken heart with those words….
Make me feel like a Superhero again.
How and why we kiss and then teach brokenness is beyond me most times. But I’m guilty. And I refuse the illusion of a generation. With all the turmoil between what I hope for and what I actually end up doing, talking has been my only honest takeaway. And damn if I’m not always saying sorry…
(But, oh, my Little Fate, I’d rather you not live a life where I’ve never been.)
We like to think we’ve buried the trauma of our formative years in the soil of our surname’s worst. The truth? The roots of our lineage are buried deep within ourselves. Mine are buried beneath the veil of my young mother’s fears and deep below the loss of her father’s embraces. And further still–through the corpse of my grandmother’s doctrine. Just as strong as it is twisting and wretched.
(Because, Little Fate, I need to tell you why sometimes I don’t know how to meld this irrepressible feeling of love for you with my unavoidable actions…)
“Well, I haven’t grown my wings yet…but I can run!”
(…but I can try.)