By: Rose Clifford
I looked at her picture, torn at the yellowing edges. I’m unsure of how to feel now that I finally found it. Now that her bare and youthful bathing-suit-wearing body is in front of me.
Is this anger? I ask myself. Like a white-hot rage sizzling under the surface from someone that betrayed you. No, betrayal requires the person to be present…but could it be sadness? The type of melancholy where you miss something you once had. No, no because I never had her. She was never emotionally here for me, I think.
I thought this moment would be different — a change in my life, like walking through a door that is slightly cracked. A door that begs you to move forward to see what is hiding. As if seeing her picture would answer all of the mysteries that came to mind when I thought of her name.
Her name is what does it. Mom.
It’s a yearning. A yearning for someone I never knew.
That’s the feeling.