STEPS

CHAPTER NINETEEN Mother to Mother

Yeah, I don't indulge in casual conversations any more. Preaching, always telling. Advice unsought, opinions unasked yet I offer, I force upon. All this knowledge, I reason. What use if it cannot be shared, similar to the information one reads in newspapers or sees on TV. More though like I'm a Godly authority on everything from cancer cures to nutrition and relationships. The latter where I most excel; honing in on couples, eyeing their wholesomeness and seeking, always finding faults - they are never the one they project. Huh.

Under my microscope I spot the lies, the doled-out misinformation. I speak about their lies, never mind the discomfort inflicted when the facades drop. Everyone is the same. Broken. This similarity exposed to make my own fractured continuance less unique, more palatable in its commonness.

Maybe it explains the attraction to married men. Better the one screwed than the one screwed over? Better the challenge, the thrill of inciting supposed impropriety than the after-taste of treachery? The fact I choose volatile, serial adulterers? Hell. I blame the wife too, for her lack of knowledge or in the knowing, her accepting. Can this love they profess be great if it allows others in, claiming both flesh and promises? Others stomping on oaths, giggling?

Men as bastards. A wink and they're naked, penis in hand, awaiting triumph, another conquest to notch up and feel good about. Smooth transition from husband to this thing panting, exulting in its fortune. Hell, women as bastards too. Swaying to the cheating tune, suggesting something new, far from the tired tried at home. Only it never is. Same old naked sweat and well-worn sex talk exchanged in well-worked beds when the adulterous point is reached.

I expect there is nothing there, the standing on the precipice always a better proposition than down there, in the thick of it. It niggles, this lack of joyfulness. There should be delight, laughter. My boys should see me grinning. Happy? All they carry within is this bitter, cynical and bleak person, spouting gloom, predicting doom, disaster and disease in all their suppositions.

I do wish I could be this other person. Carefree. Light. Sharing the movie scenes of mothers rolling on the floor, children delighting in the showing of exuberance; playing silly games, partners in joyous moments. No. My games have always been constructive, always about learning. Never acting the fool, making stupid animal sounds, being something unrestrained, unstrung. On the dance-floor sure, there I found some semblance of this liveliness. But only ever drunk, hiding behind the alcohol crutch - until one day this too came to an end. I became my mother. Observing others and wondering how it is so easily accessible to them, this abandon. Arms folded across my body when someone suggests I join in. Alone at tables too now, matching my mother.

Yet I hold no memories of playing with her, cannot recall her embrace in any detail. There must have been frequent hugs, I believe she loved me. But she was often away from my little world, busy working, bringing in money, supporting my father. Then cooking, cleaning, washing, finally collapsing in front of the TV exhausted. Dealing also with his insecurities, existing within them the threat of imminentout bursts. Did she ever roll around on the floor, tossing me up in the air and laughing? There are no impressions of such moments.

I hold a memory of my father wrestling with me and my brother in his bed one Sunday morning. The only day he could sleep in. I remember him tickling me? A single instance captured and filed away.

Sometimes I ache for a memory to cling to. A running towards her, arms outstretched, her gleeful smile as I am swept up, maybe twirled around?

"I love you, you silly goose," or some variation. Tender narration I can recall now, perhaps use to negate the feelings of emotional neglect. Perhaps also to counter the terrible images I hold instead, the screaming and the tears. Again and again the tears.