I think of my mother,... «Yesteryear»
marina_borisova19 июня 2026I think of my mother, sitting at the edge of the hospital bed when I was twenty years old. Soon you’ll feel like yourself again. Young. I was so young then. Young enough to think my mother was telling me the truth. But she was pretending, wasn’t she? Always pretending. Though I don’t blame her for it, or for waiting until just the right moment to let me in on the secret. It’s all some vital game, isn’t it? No- more than a game. It’s the long, golden string of insincerity that threads together the entire human race: a shared agreement between women to insist back and forth in endless conversation that this thing we spend our whole lives preparing for—this thing we were born for - is anywhere close to what we thought it would be. And do you know the truth beneath that secret? The water beneath the ice? It never stops. You never age out of it. Your mother lies to you, and then you lie to your children, and then your children lie to their children, and then you are an old woman, looking back at your own life, lying to yourself. A lifetime of drowning, and then you are dead.
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