kindred

My mother is mine and my own.

I've written the epic tale of my modern-day Medusa. I know of her wretchedness and dark dark thoughts. But after having confronted that which I came to realize not 2 weeks ago, I've begun to understand the paradox that is she, my mother. My own.

My mother is beauty in the break down: she is that which prevails after strives and attempts fall short of her dreams and hopes for excellence. She is that which wishes to go above and beyond anything you know you are capable of, sometimes for seemingly ostentatious reasons..... and sometimes, for our own good. I'll never fully understand her, but that will not distract nor lessen the immense amount of love I have for her.

I had always favored my father's over her conversations; his company is that of an old soul, whose wisdom and quacks I revel in. It is under his gaze and speech that I feel like I child one again. I adored my father, his hard work and unflailing devotion, and his silence. Yes... his silence which spoke volumes more than any loudness his voice had ever boomed before. He had a kind heart, but just like mother, just like me, just like the rest of humanity, he had his faults. She liked to point them out, but we all know that story. No true hit comes uncalled for. However, I nevertheless loved my mother even more because of what I failed to like in or about her. It's as though my heart felt sad that I didn't like her company as much as I liked his, and to compensate for that lack of favor, my repressed love for her was heightened.

Whenever I feel sad, I think of dire and tragic situations; I think of how I would gladly bargain with death and give up my life for their lives any given moment. No matter how terrible the death, I would bare it for there would be no hell or dark corner that would drown me in anguish and sorrow as that which would follow me in the days after I buried them. I think of it now, and how I wish that every single person I know could meet my parents and my aunts and my brother and see all the little things I see that simply make them such amazingly wonderful people.... see the things that make them beautiful. Alive. Human.

I wish the world could see in this way. I think of how much I love the people in my life, and despite the fact that some love goes unrequited, they are as equally important... And I can't help but feel... well.... immortal.

My mother is mine and my father is my own; my aunts and brother, my heart; together, my soul. And my soul is a feeling of love forever adrift in the memory of life, and my life is never-ending.

I am immortal.