Excerpt from Story for WR 324

Of all people in existence, it is my mother who I identify with, for she is almost my identity entirely.   I’ve spent years emulating her gestures and watching her movements with microscopic precision.  Like some type of fabric or woody sticks, I’ve weaved my way in and out, until I’ve conjoined my habits with her own.  I developed this consciousness as a child but honed my expertise as an adult of twenty-one.  With these added years of existence on earth, I have gained awareness of my ebbs and her flaws.   She uses her “fake voice” when she talks to someone she’s unacquainted with-a voice two octaves above her normal one so it comes out saccharine and makes people uneasy.   She brushes her teeth in bed without toothpaste, fully believing this is a competent way to battle tartar.  She never admits when she’s wrong.

Admittedly, I have tried to scrub the tarnished parts of my mother off my shoulders, much like a poor pauper would to a brass lamp, pining for a wish-granting genie.  But I realize this is a futile effort for she will never rub off.

@2 years ago