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Contents Page: Oct 1, 2011, vol 7 no 3

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Audrey Friedman

Crazy with the Freedom of the Breeze

I always wanted to have a one-sided conversation with my mother. Maybe then there would be no finger pointing or acid-laced retorts. No hypochondria to yank me back to her as if I were a kite, crazy with the freedom of the breeze.

Now I stand at her gravestone, begin to say something to one of my children. "Shh," my daughter says. "I'm talking to Grandma." I know she's recounting highlights of her recent wedding, and her sister is sharing my granddaughters' milestones: Annie's kindergarten graduation, the ribbon she won for riding George the Horse, Beth's first ballet recital and how she prances everywhere in her leotard which she fondly calls her "leo."

I thought it would be easier to talk with a silenced mother, but I only find two words. I say hello, then let my kids do the talking. Then I say goodbye.

koi glint in calm ponds
afraid to bleed through water's
lacerated skin

 

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