fade, mother

Before my mother lost her luster, she was beautiful. I have never seen her as such, but faded photographs touch lightly upon her vitality. Even now, in leather-faced form, she represents the most basic human success: survival. She has died a living death many times over, but has never once put to rest her dream of freedom. She wears a scar of discontent, which blankets her strength under the guise of frailty. Passion, unparallel, shrouds her depression as she lands her focus on others. She has learned well the trade of self-denial, always believing in a better tomorrow (which to this day, she has never seen). Reality is but a figment of her mind, documented with effort each time she swallows another pill. She dies this living death with every breath and all i'll ever know of my mother is a photograph of promise. Her legacy to me has been a tepid tenacity, a lesson in detachment; she has survived, yes... but to the detriment of what? fade another day, mother while i wait earnestly (in vain) for your rejuvenation.my mother has been diagnosed with several "illnesses" and been treated for these as long as i can remember. over twenty years of a walking-dead existence. i can't say i've ever known her. supposedly, the new "diagnosis" is one suggesting severe childhood trauma (i know she suffered every kind of abuse imaginable)that she has not recovered from. she just seems so empty. for the most part. Written April 19th, 2002 © on Apr 19 2002 10:07 AM PST   0 • 1