Wednesday, 10 June 2015

Thirteen Crucifixions, 121


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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