(no subject)
There is a pile of paper next to this computer. Sheets and sheets filled with thoughts from my mother, posted to her online writing site.
And I read the first page.
These are stories and quips that she has put up for public display, shrouded by the use of fake names and made up places. I know the real names, and the real places.
And here is a treasure trove of information about my mother. Scintillating details about her and my dad, her frustrations with me, what she finds amusing or tiresome.
I am afraid to read it, but I am drawn to it by that same queasy feeling in my stomache.
It's like happening upon pornography as an adolescent, you're scared but so curious about what lies between those cover pages.
And I read the first page.
These are stories and quips that she has put up for public display, shrouded by the use of fake names and made up places. I know the real names, and the real places.
And here is a treasure trove of information about my mother. Scintillating details about her and my dad, her frustrations with me, what she finds amusing or tiresome.
I am afraid to read it, but I am drawn to it by that same queasy feeling in my stomache.
It's like happening upon pornography as an adolescent, you're scared but so curious about what lies between those cover pages.