I pry my mother's indifference off of me, and underneath I find her despair and her disdain. I watch her roll the thought of me around in her mouth, the way she curls her lip as I bump against her teeth, too big, too fat, too clumsy, too loud, needing too much.
I sat in a room filled with women whom I mother, and these women chirped about their mothers as confidants and best friends and sources of strength and rocks. I thought about my mother telling me I'm difficult. I thought about my mother telling me I need to apologize to my father because he hit me. My mother, all stalagmites and stalactites, freezing to death because it never occurred to her to move towards the warmth.