Torrential Down Poor
Let it wash your Self away…
There was never much to take from the child. Things, perhaps, but she placed little value upon them. Dolls did not please her, she scribbled in marker over their pretentiously perfect painted faces. She styled their hair to baldness. They looked better to her this way.
Her mother was too smart to ask questions or hear answers. She raised the girl as if she were 10 going on 30. She wasn’t a bad mother, per se. She did the best she could, the best she knew how.
Problem being, she never learned how to make that child feel mothered. The girl felt her presence, but not her heart. It had been hidden behind many keloid layers of life. The girl knew, this was not her fault. Still it hurt- left her needing- wanting.
She had a father. He was not much more than a fly on the wall. He did not know how to be a father. Most of the time, he was gone. Business trips, they said. The girl did not miss him. Who would miss a fly on the wall?
The mother had boyfriends that the girl was forbidden to speak of. She did make mention accidentally once, and found her mouth filled with a bar of Irish Spring. “Wash your mouth out with soap” was taken quite literally in this family. She did not make the same mistake again.
