conjuntos

I am beginning to see how my mother and I are alike. Both easily brought to tears — she, often drawn to a quiet fury, dwelling deep in her stomach and only surfacing to stream down her cheeks, a softly rolling soul-release; I, often erupting in loud, dramatic rage, a jungled-rainstorm at my worst, a turbulent hurricane at my best. Both of our hearts leak freely, and often.

We are both introverts who love working with people. She, the practical, registered caretaker, registered businesswoman, eager to help and hesitant to hurt. I, the almost-writer/almost-musician/almost-girlfriend/almost-a-lot-of-things, nurturing a deep sense of loyalty to lands I've never met, and an impulsive people-person, sometimes saying too much and withdrawing for extended periods of time in hopes of the world forgetting my blunders. We are both within and without ourselves, all at once.

Most importantly, most tragically, and perhaps most admirably, we are both our best and our worst with each other. I am snappy and irritable — a preening princess and arrogant "young adult," demanding quiet and privacy most often when both are easily accessible. I am not who I love. She is fragile and also arrogant, "taking care of things" in a hurried, contagious manner, voicing the day's complaints as readily as I am to retreat to my room when it's too much to handle, as if hoping her perpetually wrinkled brow is carved deep enough for others to empathize without having to ask, she is proud, and serious, and not who she loves.

Despite all of this, we both stay awake until 2am, drinking coffee sometimes just an hour before bed, finding our mutual yearning for peace satisfied in a cup of cheap Folgers, and the way she sometimes sits next to me without saying a word, setting a glass of water next to my stack of books, and I reach out my hand to touch her wrist, the spot where her vein is bluer than most, and look at her to say, "It's okay, I understand, I'm sorry" and she nods, too tired to respond, and we just sit. We sit at the end of the night, at the beginning of the day, caught somewhere between the sun and moon, weighing all our worries on the kitchen table and letting them sit with us, as if they are as unmovable as our love for each other, as if our problems are as quaint and negligible as a sometimes-beautiful still life. My mom and I, we are most alike in that way — when we both just sit.