Writing about my past

     Writing about my past and my childhood, I’ve been thinking about my parents quite a bit lately. There are certain truths that come to light upon examination. My father had achieved almost mythical status by having a larger than life personality and dying young. He was my first hero and, at times, my best friend. In retrospect, I should have idolized my mother instead. It was her courage, love and determination that kept us going. She could have just as easily tumbled into that shaker of martinis and never returned.

     Of course, my mother and I didn’t always get along. There is something that happens when a girl comes of age and her mother realizes that she is getting older, and perhaps not as desirable or sexy as she once was--like a passing of the ovaries. I remember being uncomfortable in my skin as a developing woman. Breasts swelling, hips widening, wet underwear. There were times, under my mother’s glare, when I wished I could unzip my skin and give it to her. I don’t have daughters, just sons. So I can only imagine how she might have felt watching her daughter blossom into a voluptuous young lady. It must have been hard for her.

     There are some events in my past that I cannot bring myself to write about. I’m not totally innocent either, but in the past these conflicts and digressions shall remain. Even though drinking was always involved, I think that’s too easy an excuse. Suffice to say, I’m not proud of all my past behavior. I still feel ashamed and remorseful.  

     I started a creative non-fiction piece entitled “My Mother’s Eyes.” Hopefully, I begin to honor her in a small but significant way. I shall try to preserve her in a kind, loving light. I hope she likes it.