All My Mothers

by Joanna Glen

(I think that sounds mean, but take it from me that a fragile mother is a scary thing for a child – it feels like your whole life is made of paper.)

I couldn’t imagine that people who were alive really did die. It seemed impossible. We prepare for everything, thinking carefully ahead as we put things in our suitcase for a holiday, for example. But we cannot pack for death.

These were the strange intersection years, caged in the middle of the adult-child Venn diagram, growing too big for it.

But love is supposed to be a watering hole, where you come and go by choice, and leave refreshed. That’s what I’m aiming for, anyhow.

might eventually come home to Córdoba singing that it had been twenty long years and did I still want her?

And did I still want her? You always want your mother. Whatever she’s like.