My Mother

My mother never sang, she never danced, she never played. I remember thinking it was strange. In the car she’d listen to the same songs; albums on repeat, never singing along, never tapping to the beat.

Every so often she’d unclench the wheel raising three fingers, that was the deal. I didn’t know then what it was about, but time has shown me that this signals doubt. From the backseat I watched her white-knuckle through life, unaware that her coldness was fueling my strife.

Decades have passed and forgiveness won’t come, but something is shifting, coming undone. When I sing with my daughter and dance in the sun, I think of my mother and the war that I won.

I missed out on so much, but so did she.

So bitterness, meet empathy.

Photo by Vlad ION on Unsplash