Today he asked me what I would tell you about him. I stumbled. I wanted to tell him that I would tell you everything. About him. About us. That you would want to know every reason he had for loving me. As I had wanted to know yours.
But instead, I said I would tell you the same thing I tell everyone else: That I have met the man I’m going to marry. He laughed and with that let me off the hook. But you remain dangling on mine.
I told him you would not be interested in his qualities or why we loved each other. That your concerns were more earth bound. That your love for me and mine for you, though fierce, was always confined within our roles. You, the worried, protective mother. I, the rebellious daughter willing to pay any price for defiance.
Was I too cruel in my reductions? I fill with regret. I feel the pull to defend you after murdering you. To give you back life. To make you momentous. Strange that when we die, we can live only through the re-telling of us by another.