When my neighbor said to my daughter, "Go out of the street, child" when I was standing right there next to her, I turned to Mad and said, "Yeah, child," instead of turning to my neighbor and saying, "Thanks, mom."
In day of constant movement, all go go go, Violet cocked her head to the side at dinner, looked at me and said, "Hi mama," in that indescribably sweet voice of hers. "Hi hi hi." Mad's deep brown eyes, always.
My husband, knowing I had had one of those days, brought home tiramisu from La Madeleine.
Mothers, daughters, legacies. All the pain and anger and growth gnotted between them.
Listening: M. Ward, "Sad Sad Song"
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