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Conveniently, she left this out of the book. Or maybe what’s written is faithful to her recollection, to how it played out in her mind. One person’s truth is another’s fiction.
If we don’t remember something, how can we be sure it never happened?
Resentment. How can something silent be so damn loud?
Maybe, when we look back, we see only what we want to see, what suits us in the present.
It just makes me wonder about belief and delusion. What’s the difference there, really? Maybe delusion is an eagerness to believe. A desperation for it.
An invisible threat is infinitely more frustrating. An invisible threat is madness.
Our demons are ours and ours alone. My mother’s demons were hers. Even if she were still here, I couldn’t ever really understand what it was like for her, why she did the things she did.
