Together again with his mother, their lives had never touched each
other outside of the context of the house he had grown up in. Now they were evenly matched, on neutral
turf, in the presence of witnesses, outside of the family. He had never so clearly seen or known his
mother as Sheila, now somewhat stooped, diminished, almost shrunken by the huge
burden of her loss. But in another
way—he could almost swear that a youthfulness, a little girl quality had
recently appeared in her face and in her gestures. She had mentioned to him the other day that
the fire for her was a liberation. He
had never seen her this way before. Had
she been always like this, but his eyes were shielded by the familiarity of
house and context? Was this a new
Sheila? Was this the Sheila who, his
mother or not his mother, had always been and only his need, his connection
with her as “mother” had kept him blind towards her? Even now felt Michael the need for his
mother, but now what he got was Sheila.
Then he must settle for Sheila.
Friend? As well as mother? Who are you?
He wanted to, but didn’t dare to ask her. He didn’t look like her, except in the eyes
and the shape of his mouth. She was his
mother? She was Sheila. And he was
Michael. Her son? Well, that would
always be inescapable. They’d hadn’t
much time alone here. The schedule, the
rhythm of communal life didn’t in their case, seem to permit it. Though Michael did have lots of solitary time
with Glen, with Lazarus and with Adam, as well as in varying combinations of
any two or three. But he hadn’t much
time at all with neither his mother nor Matthew. No one in the community had tried to
discourage this, neither had there been any rule written or unwritten that
stated emphatically that thou shalt not go unchaperoned with thy mother or with
thine former gay partner.
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