Wilting, Mother, Wilting

My mother told me that some day I would reach my potential, I would find the one who could venture into my soul and together we would flourish. I took this to mean I was not fully realised; I could be, or do, so much more. It was an intuition that pervaded my sense of identity throughout those years that count, the ones that give you insecurities and open doors that opportune or deny.

My mother was once overheard telling my cousin’s mother that he would grow into his looks. An overhang of disappointment appeared over their relationship from this point, pierced and dissipated as the said cousin’s portfolio shot made society pages following his well-timed marriage to the local dignitary’s daughter, her previous scandalous relationship thrown over by this unexpected betrothal.

My mother was known to poke at my father’s refusal to expand his business ventures further, to increase capital and thus her wealth. Her undercurrent stabs at his relaxed approach and placid nature in his dealings were heard with relish by the cleaner who visited twice a week.

Maybe she wished for all to blossom, to fulfil what only she could see. Her shrewd eye for how much better each one could be, the astuteness that was gossamered by barbed perceptions, criticisms in positivity.

My mother had transformed her own self over periods of time, tales of cotton candy style childhood gave way to formative years spent reading the classics alongside biblical threats, reinterpreted as a good old fashioned, traditional, way of life. As a teen she regaled me with legends of her beauty, after her nightly one too many gins her mouth curled in distemper as the myths of beauty became yarns of sidelined treatment from her teen peers. The virginal bride photograph was revealed to be a hasty proposal and a slightly early baby.

My mother was skilled in the re-casting of selves and origins. Her natural avoidance of direct dialogue enabled her hugely in recreation of her own stories, aided by a mini dependence on alcohol and the occasional prescription drug. My mother wove staries that became truths, forming fables to persuade us in seeing the right in what she admonished or expected, instructed in our ways of living.

My mother implored me to seek out the clever ones, those who had an influence, who would round me off, knock out and smooth over the kinks and waves in my lines. Her attempts to do so herself left us both sour, our similar expressions denoting a distaste. Her sighs, not in pleasure, were a soundtrack to my teens, hushing through, whistling under the guitar solos and basslines of choice. Her eyes, plagued with regret it seemed, flicked through my being, blinking slowly as though she was unable ot comprehend how this creature was her daughter.

My mother was not a happy person, though jubilant. Her body contained a multitude of quavering emotions, feelings that would seep through her demeanour and pool around our feet. My tiptoed dance through these, accompanied when available by my father, were deliberate in trajectory.

Today I am a mother, I have reached my potential in her eyes, though I am sure I am less so than she prophesised. My child born amidst adoration and cherished from the start. There is no need for them to aspire further, little expectation beyond happiness and love for them. They will grow; they will flourish as I nourish their soul with belief and acceptance. They will spread their small limbs about this world, and it will brighten because of their life.

Just love.