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I would like to learn
to knit. She responds calmly. NOT astrophysics, and not speaking Chinese –
at least not yet. I don’t want to learn
to play oboe. However…
The little 'h' word brings a whiff of hope into my shattered
world … before it’s shattered again:
However, she
continues, I might be open to learning how
to thole my way out of my mother’s antediluvian diversion tactics.
She waits for the last sentence to work its
coup de grace magic before she concludes:
The question is, are
you going to help me or not?
It’s that nightmarish moment when your colossal failure of the past
meets your colossal failure of the present.
In this split-second instant all the unmet expectations of my parents crash into the
sure-to-be-unmet expectations of my children. And I realize I am doomed. I am an impossibly failing parent
just as I was an impossibly failing child. I watch in horror as my life unravels in both directions
and there is no hope in sight.
The no-hope-in-sight place reminds me of something I tend to
forget every day.
And need to learn and relearn anew every single day.
God! Are You there?
What are You doing to me? Don’t You care that my stitches are coming apart? I am unraveling
from the front and from the back. Is there any bloody mercy here?
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