Glitter and Glue

by Kelly Corrigan

And it occurs to me that maybe the reason my mother was so exhausted all the time wasn’t because she was doing so much but because she was feeling so much.

Hysterical? I’d started college four months ago. Could my mother have become hysterical in four months? Perhaps Sharon meant literally hysterical, as in unhinged.

But now I see there’s no such thing as a woman, one woman. There are dozens inside every one of them. I probably should’ve figured this out sooner, but what child can see the women inside her mom, what with all that Motherness blocking out everything else?

I remember a lecture from one of my lit classes about a theory called “Reader Response,” which basically says: More often than not, it’s the readers—not the writers—who determine what a book means. The idea is that readers don’t come blank to books. Consciously and not, we bring all the biases that come with our nationality, gender, race, class, age. Then you layer onto that the status of our health, employment, relationships, not to mention our particular relationship to each book—who gave it to us, where we read it, what books we’ve already read—and, as my professor put it, “That massive array of spices has as much to do with the flavor of the soup as whatever the cook intended.”

What is it about a living mother that makes her so hard to see, to feel, to want, to love, to like? What a colossal waste that we can only fully appreciate certain riches—clean clothes, hot showers, good health, mothers—in their absence.

“Yes, you. I mean, not when we first met.” He smiles. “When we first met, I thought you were a total soap-opera junkie bum who camped out in a garage.” He laughs. “But then it was so obvious that you’re not. People need you. You’re … important. You’re probably the most important person I’ve ever met.”

This was one for the books, I think. You are one for the books.

“Be right there.” I tuck my toothbrush into my backpack and peek around Pop’s door, worried he might not be awake this early. “Righto!” He looks up from his recliner. “So, we’re heading out,” I say, stepping close to him. He takes my hand and nods, smiling. “Thanks a lot for, I don’t know, for everything—doing my laundry and eating my bad curry and helping me dye my clothes—” “Okay, Kelly dear,” he says, his eyes shining. “You be safe. Take good care to always be safe.”