I’m afraid to believe the things I feel
Jackson Browne – Love Needs A Heart (cover) – Leo Rossi
Driving around in my beat down blue car listening to the rattle and grrr of my ancient engine while my shitty stereo plays some old song I drive past the place where the last of my mother might be and wonder about the life she led and the life that is over. What could that all mean? What can a life mean when it is over? Does it become part of my life now somehow? All her adulted decisions and turmoil are mine now to ponder and keep as though they were choices I made. I live with the consequences and the road that unfurls away from me like that colored paper you put up, streamers I think, for a party. The thing that kills me, really truly rolls me flat is that I can’t ask her “What were you thinking…”.
There just isn’t enough. That is what I feel most clearly now and always is that there wasn’t enough. Enough love. Enough truth. Enough friendship. Enough kindness and I wish I had been a better older adult when all this happened. I feel like she got cheated out of what her death did to me. All of this seeing. All this understanding of what her life, HER life was.
I watch my children love me and follow me and vie for my attention and swirl around my feet in a fog of love and adoration and recall that same worshipfullness for her. That longing for her love. The longing for her approval and acceptance. I want to know what she said about me. Was it real? Was it true? Was it really who I am or just who I was to her. Maybe that is all we can ever be. Maybe that is all we really are is who we are to others. Maybe it doesn’t matter who we think we are. Ask someone who you are and that is the truth.
I don’t think I had time to think about her life when I was beginning to become an adult and how she was living it. All I saw was limitless opportunity and adventure and friends and music and art and love and sex and everything. I saw everything and walked with it. She watched. Sitting in front of her small mirror staring at her self, combing her hair, listening to records crying, smoking, getting high. I spent a lot of time in my room. Away from her. How would you have connected to that? Everything about her seemed so foreign and frail. She was a sickly child and a sickly adult, emotionally and physically.
Clinging to men that hated me. Clinging to men that were cruel to her. Clinging to her father the perfect ideal of a man in her head. Admitting no one was ever like her daddy. Proud and alone. Cold as a stone.