I wish I could say it is pure envy, just a high extension of admiration. But I guess that would be a lie because in reality it is jealousy, though a mild case of it. If I wanted to make it sound nice, sure, I’d say I am envious of the relationship between the mother and daughter. I’d say I envy the daughter’s unique sense of existence, a quiet, calm livelihood of a woman who paints her feelings with all their complexities. I don’t like to be in denial about my weaknesses and shortcomings; I like to be honest when I write, for my writing’s sake at the least. I am jealous of what they have together and what Maman and I will never have. I am jealous that Maman and I are not that close or that we can’t talk about everything. Maman is present, there, but she is entangled by things from the past, trapped in a box that none of us can get to.
I watch them and they are not in separate worlds. She may be in her own reality, one depicted through her art, but her mother somehow attempts and sometimes succeeds in finding a way in.
What Maman and I have is special to me, but deep down I want more, not just from her, but also from myself. I want us to be more before it’s too late, before we are too distant. I want us to talk, not just talk about talking. I want us to be open. I want us to not feel the 38 years that comes between us.
Lately, all she says to me is, “you are so quiet, why?”
And I want to say, “why not?” I want to say, what could I possibly say to make you feel better, to make you feel like I am still yours?
Silence runs in my family. We hide our anger, our sadness, our pain, our wounds all in silence to spare each other from more sorrow. We push these wounds aside until they sting way beyond repair. But we are learning to open up, to spill our tears, to cry, to talk. The problem is, our mother didn’t learn to cry. She learned to hold her breath, and with it every inch of her pain.