I know my mother like the back of my hand. At least I ought to after living with her for 16 years. I can vividly imagine her light green eyes which are somehow piercing and kind at the same time. The bags under them have grown from tiny little pocket books to duffle bags in the span of 10 years. Now that her potato-colored hair is turning silver, her lashes and brows are almost invisible. Her face—with all her pores and wrinkles, and worry lines—has a slight red underetone (It really shows when she's mad, she looks like big angry tomato.) And her thin, wavy coud get stuck in her armpit if she really tried.
I could tell you everything about her appearance from the wen on her right cheek, to the little ole in her leg from a Flatsy Doll. But I'm not sure how to describe her beyond the physical. She can be outrageously funny one minute, but dead serious the next. Her personality confuses the heck out of me. Maybe it's from PTSD, or maybe that's what living in isolation does to a person. Whatver it is, this je ne sais quoi... it pushes me to know more. I ask her questons, she tells me stories, jokes, poems, songs. Any and every little bit is helpful. I hope someday, I will know my mother... Like realy know her... You know?