Will you love me forever? I think to myself. Will you love be when I’m old? If I go crazy? Will you be embarrassed of me? Avoid my calls? Wash dishes when you talk to me on the phone, roll your eyes, lay the receiver down next to the cat?
I realize how badly I need a piece of my mother. A scrap, a sound, a smell — something.
I hunger for the person who birthed me, whose body, I realized after becoming a mother myself, was overrun with nerve endings that ran straight to her heart, until it was numb with overuse, or until, perhaps, she felt nothing.
— Megan Mayhew Bergman, “Housewifely Arts,” Birds of a Lesser Paradise (19)