Sylvia's Momma
Her face was tight. Stern creases edged between her eyebrows. Lines etched across her forehead, promising to deepen over time. Sylvia! I told you to stay here. Why can't you fricking listen? If you can't listen you can't come with me anymore. She grabbedSylvia's hand, reefing on her arm in anger. She readjusted the baby on her hip. Sighing. Gasping for collective parental patience and air. She was being swallowed alive by life in the middle of Meijer. I recognized her. I recognized the sideways glances she took once she exploded on her daughter. The did-anyone-see-me-i-am-not-always-like-this look. The one that begs people to not judge, to understand, to be patient with her in ways she wasn't patient with her child. My instinct to say, It's okay, momma. She won't want to go with you very much longer. was squashed by her sharp edges. She didn't want my help. She didn't want solidarity or patience. She wanted the hell out of there, yesterday...