My mother. Ok. I guess I’ll write about my mother. Anything to keep my mind off . . . The Squid. That’s right. I’m going to just pretend I didn’t hear the . . . I guess we’ll call it ‘ruckus’ . . . in his office the other day AND pay no attention to the graphic rumors flying around AND continue to believe those scratches on his face and neck and god knows where else are just from some inexplicable fall. I can ignore all of this. He’s still mine. Whether he knows it yet or not.
Anyway, back to my mother.
I guess the word mother can mean a lot of things. I mean, it’s just a word. It can just mean the person who gave birth to you, or I guess it can mean the person who raised you and cared for you. I’m not sure the best way to describe my mother. All I really knew, growing up, was that my mother was different. She was never traditional, and she always followed her own paths. Which is good! Believe me, it’s good. I totally admire this about her. It was really great how she traveled a lot, and explored a lot, and never got stuck in those awful ruts of having a traditional job or a traditional marriage. 'You only live once, don’t you,' she would say. But anyway, it seemed like she was always the happiest when my dad would come for visits. I remember them in his van, singing along to the radio. We never actually went anywhere, we just drove around and I would pretend we were a normal family, taking a normal Sunday drive. But we don’t really talk about him any more. I think her new boyfriend doesn’t like him. I wonder what Alan’s mother was like.
*stares at typewriter*
Hmmm, I’m still thinking about The Squid.