A Little Bit of Me

Jottings and Writing, miscellanous misgivings

My Daimon

6a00d83451c29169e2011571032565970cI hadn’t seen her for quite along time. Before she went into hospital for what seemed the hundredth time. In and out, recuperate, fall, admit, rehabilitate, discharge home, fall. Increasingly frail with each admission and discharge. I saw her now before me and I almost missed seeing how the spirit that used to be so strong in her was hovering, just outside her. She had always talked to me about my daimon. Her idea of it was not what I thought it was but she described it as the real me, which I could not see, but which was plainly visible to her. She said it was always standing behind me, watching over my shoulder and the way she said it I took it that my daimon was disapproving of everything I did. I thought she used it as a sort of control over me, a way of bring her world into focus against mine. She always said she failed to understand me. I had gone wrong somewhere in the distant recess of her mind and I was lost to her. My daimon was the last fragment of me that she could preserve. I guessed that my daimon was obedient, compliant, conservative, silent, smiling and forever a little boy.

I thought we had no issues between us. The issues we had were long in the past and would never be resolved. They just were what kept us together but apart. We put up with each other’s foibles, took what we both could from the dunnage of our lives. For all I knew, what she thought of me was some brief moment in 1961 when I last never talked back.

When we met she always asked me if I wanted a cup of tea. If I answered in the affirmative then she made me the tea, put out the biscuits, then sat sans tea and biscuits herself, watched me drink and eat. When I had finished it was always the same question about having more. She could never fill me up to her satisfaction. If I answered instead no, which I almost always did as I could not stand her insipid tea and sugary biscuits, then she made one herself then we sat in silence for fifteen minute while she ate and drank.

The accident.

I looked at her hand and saw this hard, ebony, twisted, purple, monstrosity that I could not bring myself to touch. She saw my reluctance for what it was almost in an instance and pulled the appendage away and shuffled off to her bathroom. I heard the sound of running water, running water that echoed the tears in my own head that I could not shed for this woman who was my mother.

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