Bad

Hellie

It was something my mom would say to me. How I wasn't living my life. "Isn't breathing enough?" I'd shoot back at her while she was in bed, head angled on her pillow. I found it quite ironic she cared so much for living when she was wasting away. And when she had her own chance at it, how easily she let it slip from her fingers.

"You'd think," she answered back once and giggled to herself. That was the place she'd never let me join her – her mind where she kept her inside jokes, and I'm sure a slew of data that forever positioned her against me. How could this woman who looked like death incarnate piss me off so much?

It wouldn't be until later when I was leaving her apartment and clumsily finding my way through my tears that I realized it was because she was illusive, untouchable, even to her own kid.

Once, she had told me she wished I'd bring Brent along so she could, and I quote, "have someone to talk to," which was a real gut-puncher. But even though he was her favorite (or the only one she actually liked in any capacity), he always had a sixth sense about him where he could tell who was "good" and who was "bad."

And guess which category Daisy belonged to?

I suppose to be fair, Brent also had a hard time with death, still does (I loathe the day Fogerty passes). He's pretty much allergic to any finality not of his own doing, which when you think about it, isn't too far off from the rest of us who crave control.

Sometimes, I wonder, is that what I want? Control? Did I want to control Daisy? Did I want to control the way she felt about me?

No. I just wanted her to love me. Because she wanted to.

So now, I'm doubling down on being pissed off (funny how memories can incite something like that), having left my apartment and Pearl the Traitor. That's not fair. Pearl only wants what's best for me (unlike my own mother did). And so, I've geared up. Rain jacket (because I never check the weather. Suprises are much more my style), a notebook and pen (keeping it old school), and the very writerly instinct to observe outside of my comfort zone.

I'm going to stalk Barbara Ann.