How shallowly I knew her, how ineptly, how childishly. But then I knew so little of myself, how should I think to know of another, especially one’s parent.
I took this unknowingness into the (very few) ‘romantic’ relationships I had – baffling those who loved me. Baffling myself that they did not know. Somehow expecting them to know something I did not.
Some did mention that they knew me better than I knew myself, but I did not believe them. They were men, after all. (Giggle).
Slowly, daubs of color, knives of fragmented pigment, underneath long-ago painted swaths flake off. It happens slowly.
It is possible, it is within my capacity, to accomplish it in one smooth sweep. Until the entire canvas that is me is empty.
Spotlessly translucent. Clean. Anew.
Like it was. In the beginning.