One of the first things I remember is my mom saying that I wasn’t very good at being a child. They wanted to adopt a baby, but there was so much grief for my being the wrong baby. If only timing had been slightly different, it would have been a different baby, they said.
My mother died much later, when I was grown. The areas where I disappointed her were so sore. They were lumps under the skin that fester, and that I try to hide them under long sleeves. An infected one: I tried to believe blindly, but I always think. And then I try to be stoic, but seem to be constitutionally incapable of it. I tried to hide my talents under a bushel, but hidden is not good enough: They did not exist, never existed.
Every year on Mother’s Day I realize that the disappointment lumps will probably never be healed, at least not then or for Christmas or on my birthday. These lumpy hills are part of my internal landscape, alongside a river, a desert, a spring green meadow. In looking on the panorama, I have too intense of a focus. There is a panorama.