Monkey Diaries Archive

The last time I saw my mother the she was sitting in a semi-darkened room, the light from the open window fading in and out as the wind outside whipped the curtain. She sat alone in the moth-eaten love seat. I remember thinking to myself, could anything be lonlier than one person sitting on a chair made for two? That's the way I remember her when I bother to think about her at all. She's become almost a joke in my mind, her shrill voice with the thick Charo accent piercing through my thoughts. In real life, that sound was painful on a number of levels, the least of which was physical. Imagine for a minute a mother who berated her children for having the insolence to be born and you might be able to understand why I haven't spoken to my mother for over 13 years. My two brothers are probably more damaged than I am. The only difference is that they don't have the luxury of distance preventing chance encounters at the market or mall. Someday maybe I'll go into it...

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