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+--- Thread: Hushed Willows It is traditional, it is inherited, predispositional (/showthread.php?tid=58520)
It is traditional, it is inherited, predispositional - Reverie - November 17, 2023
To the mother I loved hate still love swore I would never become:
I was helping you sweep out a clearing to rest in for the night. You were humming a tune under your breath, one I'd never heard and thought might be forbidden. I thought that was odd. Then you turned to me and said, "Ophelia, the worst thing you can call a woman is ugly. I'll never say that to you. I promise." There were tears in your eyes.
To be honest, I was confused. I had no concept of beauty in others, much less my own, and I was no woman then; I was all awkward bony limbs and getting distracted by the bugs beneath my feet, I was rolling in the dirt and pretending to be one of the gophers in their burrows. Beauty was morning dew and shy snails and gruff bees flitting between vibrant flowers. But I nodded, and went back to work.
Later, when the sun had gone down, I was sorting herbs. You stormed past me in a fit, maybe fresh from an argument with dad or one of the older kids, and I was startled. I dropped the herbs. You turned to me with a very still sort of rage, and it scared me. I thought you would punish me. But you didn't.
You told me that I was a stupid girl, an ugly girl, that no one would ever want me. And you left, and I cried bitterly that night. I was four months old. You probably don't remember it now. But I think about it more often than I'd like.
That was us: a mother always setting the standard, always defining worth so that the daughter knows she is lacking. You wanted me to be better, to be more than you were. I loved you for that. But I hated you. I loved you more than I hated you, I think, but most of all I never understood you. You were miserable in the life you chose.
But I think I get it now. Love that consumes like fire; the willingness to stay, to cry every night over a man even as he sleeps at your side because to lose him is a far worse fate. Or at least, that's how it feels. For a little while.
I want you to know that love can be better than that. It can be more. I want you to know that I chose better, not because of all you did but in spite of it. I want you to know that my daughter will never feel the ways you made me feel. I want you to know that no matter what happens, I'll be okay.
Maybe one day, you can be okay, too.