Reluctantly, the Mother

On routine and change.

Photo by Quino Al on Unsplash

I routinely call her. She routinely answers.

Most times, I don’t remember dialing her number.

It’s so routine. So familiar.

Her voice — sad, bitter, lonely, coughing up crankiness

and unapologetically unraveling any silver linings still attached to her dark cloud of complaints.

I race to extract word knives she routinely plunges deep into the heart of the matter

before it’s too late.

Most times, I fail miserably.

Then we begin again

the mother-daughter dysfunctional dance.

We’re threaded together with DNA

and I know that

sooner or later

we’ll both become the other

you the daughter

and I, reluctantly, the Mother.

— —

Photo by Artem Kovalev on Unsplash