Barnard-Stokes Heresy

I've mentioned before how much I simultaneously love and am stirred up by Postcards From Yo Momma.

Surfing it today, I was suddenly seized by the idea that what if my mom were somehow elsewhere sending some other, nicer girl mom-emails that I would inadvertently find on this site?

I see her in the mirror more and more, in the ever-softening tricep, in the crazed glossy look I have in some photographs. And like her, here I am, in a null job, simmering and squandering. Infinitely better off, infinitely happier, but still -- It would be so nice to tell her all the things I understand so differently now, but would it even be possible, were she to come back to me? I think it's only her absence that makes it possible to murmur I'm sorry, I get it, I love you. I know. Her absence hurls my freed heart at the stubborn sternum, pounding against a door that will never open.