A Mother’s Legacy by Keana Águila Labra

We were not always so separate. I remember at a young age watching a scene in which a daughter spurns her mother; I swore never to be as cold. But, what was to warn me of a mother whose eyes always stared beyond the horizon? What of a mother who could not see beyond the weariness of the lines in her hands, inching deeper into her flesh each year? She who stared at herself in the mirror and wanted more than a childhood shirked by forced responsibility, encapsulated in a crying mound of flesh; she does not confess to seeing me this way. But, I can imagine myself in her position; I have once been in that same scenario. I laughed at the irony. I pledged I would never be like her, but there we were: separated by points in time but faced with the same ultimatum. The decisions my mother and I made, stark opposites, neither right nor wrong, only right for bearer. And, we are not right for each other.


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