I realized recently that I much prefer looking at pictures of my mom from when she was younger, from before I was born. There’s a set of pictures that I’m not sure about, that might be from afterward. I don’t know how I feel about those pictures. But the ones from later, the few that I have, I don’t like looking at them as much.
This is your life, without me. This is my life, without you.
It’s almost like, looking at her younger pictures, we could still be together somehow. I haven’t been born, we haven’t been torn apart. You haven’t gone on to have some other life and died before I could meet you. It’s as if the divergent paths become visible and taint the photograph in some way.
I’ve noticed, when I write these blog entries about my mom, how easily I alternate between second and third person. Talking to my mom and talking about her have become the same, or talking about her has become a substitute for talking to her. I’m not sure which and I don’t think it really matters.
Sometimes I think I don’t want to know anything about her life after I was relinquished. Of course that’s not really true, but sometimes I think it would be easier.
She moved on. I moved on. What else could we do?