Some people emerge from childhood with concrete life messages. Others struggle. It's fair to say my mother's alcoholism and tortured soul caused us to struggle.
After wrestling our own demons, Mom and I engaged in healing dialog.
Tough questions were asked and answered.
We cried.
Then laughed.
She at her joke, me at her uncanny ability to use humor as a band aid.
I find sarcasm better suited to my needs.
But if you live by the sword, you die by it.
Mom's sword was an Eve Light 120. Cigarettes so long, she kept the lighter set to blow torch. Memories jettison back to childhood the second I smell any phase of a smoked silo, beginning, middle, or end.
In her last months, post lung cancer diagnosis, she wrote a diary to each of us.
She begged my brother not to be reckless and angry.
My sister's oozed guilt, since mom's drinking affected her most.
Mine beckoned me to continue journeying toward self discovery.
After hiking Mt. Elbert, I know that if my mother had the physical capacity, she'd have climbed there herself.
When my mind spins chaotic, or I lose my way, I remember the mom I knew post childhood, who laughed with complete abandon, who camped, hiked, hugged trees, and kept ducks in the back yard.
I know the best way to honor her is to achieve what she couldn't.
Confronting my demons is the only way to put them to rest,
or let them know I'll go down only after the fight.
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