Gnocchi
The Day I Saw My Mom
[The story of my life has been in the press a great deal, from People Magazine to the Daily Blast to PBS. I wrote this story because my mother deserves more than a soundbite. If you like it, please tell me. I’ll write more. And thanks for reading.]
I was in high school, rushing down the street after the bell rang. Head down, on alert, hoping I could avoid her.
But of course, there’d she be.
“Mom. It’s me. Eliza.”
She stopped, staring at me with huge penetrating brown eyes. Something was different. She was fighting the delusions.
She wanted to see me.
Tears began rolling down her face, a half smile flickered on the edges of her mouth. Giggling softly, her head swiveled towards the sky with the grace of a dancer.
Maybe she would find me in the clouds?
Turning from the sun, her eyes locked on mine and she smiled. I remembered that smile. I had seen it in pictures.
Hope was a brutal, dangerous emotion I fought to avoid. Hope was also relentless. A history of horrors has little chance when faced with the primal, visceral longing to be loved and seen by our mothers.
