my mother and i sit and talk, mostly about the weather. that's the only thing we have left in us. we discuss the varying temperatures. sometimes it's 63 degrees and we sigh with frustration, some days it's 75 degrees and we feel blessed to finally see the sun. sometimes we drink our tea and there is an uncomfortable dry air that crawls up my nostrils and makes me feel as though i am full of dust. (i haven't been cleaned in ages.) my mind stops and i sit starring off into the walls, studying every crack in the paint. these walls are ancient and so is our silence. she is always asking me if i want food or something pretty. a necklace. new panties. a new room? she is always asking. that is her way of caring. but i have very little responses. tiny head nods, and guilty shrugs.
sometimes, i am safe in her presence. shameful for my past actions, but completely aware that she has forgiven me and accepts my shortcomings. though i still don't think she understands my withdrawal from displays of affection. i want to show it on my own time, at my own pace, at my own will.