I’ll never forget the way she looked in all of her glory.
I mean, she wore these pearls…
And only on certain occasions too.
With pink lipstick.
Sometimes red.
But back then, I think it’s safe to say my mother was the soft type, you know…yet strong kind of a woman.
I mean, the type if you even dared to open your mouth to say in the slightest way anything to her during church service, she wasn’t too beautiful to show you how deep her eyes could get.
And honestly, it was the side of my mother I dreaded.
And I remember it quite faithfully.
Except, vaguely I remember there was something in me that felt rather empty.
And of course, I knew my father wasn’t around growing up but that wasn’t it.
And maybe because he sent me money that summer to go back-to-school shopping.
And I finally bought myself my first pair of Nike Cortez.
Except if you honestly looked at them too quickly, you would almost think they were white and black…but they were white and blue instead.
Nylon. Masterpieces. Suede accents. Fresh…
But anyway, I always felt there was something missing from my childhood but I could never figure out what it was.
And to be even more honest with myself, the inability for me to get away with saying, “fuck this shit,” at the age of 13 was the lasting impression I needed to risk another chance at survival.
Except, there were days I would just go off into the woods by myself, picking at trees, doing nothing.
And only because by then, Robbie was “way too mature to be hanging around a 13 year old.”
He was 15.
Except I got in trouble most days, only…
I couldn’t tell for sure if she was upset with me because I didn’t tell her or the dishes weren’t washed before I left.
And I mean, I had this thing with dishes; obviously I hated doing them.
But anyway, when she got upset, I would almost never bring up any emotion.
I mean I maybe stared at best.
And the only thing I knew to do in those situations, honestly, was to stay quiet.
And that didn’t really help.
I mean, smiling at her at 2am didn’t seem like the smartest thing to do, especially after she worked a double shift at the nursing home.
So I pretty much just stood there, in a very cold, visible way and believed to be true: nobody loved me.
And I never shared this before (until now) but I hardly ever smiled after that.
Unless sex was involved and technically I wasn’t smiling…
Most of the time.
And just a small piece of advice for any guy whose reading this…
Sex is an art form.
To be done willfully with the fullest intent of the human experience in mind.
I mean…or why else would you be doing it?
Until next time.
“Wow…so that explains everything. Oh yeah, I meant to ask you, you think you can watch the boys tomorrow?” —-Robbie
