by Belinda Furby
I have come to the conclusion that I am metastasizing into my mother. Two mornings ago, in the mirror, I saw her ice-blue eyes staring out at me. Stopped at a red light yesterday, I glanced down at the steering wheel and wondered how her hands got there. Today, words dropped from my mouth that I swear she must have packed in the back of my throat while I was sleeping, knowing years later they would fall out at just the right moment to catch in my own daughter’s ear. I vainly grabbed at the air where they floated, trying to pull them back inside me, trying to keep them from doing harm to her. Then I realized no matter how hard I’ve tried to deny and ignore it, I am my mother’s daughter - and the older I get the more thickly her blood seems to be flowing through my veins.
Belinda Furby, whose full catalog is here, has “mother issues." She writes, wonders, considers, muses, and ponders on her blog.