The Money Tree

The voice on the other end of the line was meekly faint, like that of a timid child asking for the forbidden cookie an hour before dinner. I had listened to the entire message before I realized it was my mother, calling to ask me for a phone number.

Three months ago against my better judgement but driven by forces larger than myself, I had brought her to my hairdresser to get her hair done. Of course it was at my expense and after three days of regretting my decision, I promptly took her to bus station where she would make her way home.

Sometimes I like to believe that somewhere in the past, there was a connection, a history of spontaneous mother-daughter shopping trips or tickling games that led to out of breath laughing sessions, a bond that time or distance could not break.

Everyone tells me that that's my problem. I want what never was and can't now be.
I decry that theory and tell them that I am trying to do the right thing in the eyes of God. Honor her even though she has not earned this right but only gained it by virtue of my birth.

My mother likes to pretend that she could have ruled the world if it had not been for the likes of those who constantly foiled her plans. Her greatness denied, she has spent the last half century blaming everyone who has crossed her path. She believes she had been wronged in so many ways and takes no responsibility for her own actions which have placed her squarely where she is today. Rather than admit her mistakes it is easier not to recall them at all, as if they had never happened. This includes her brutality of me as a child and adult.

As I gaze at her in her old age I wonder if she ever saw this day coming. That one day I would grow up and remember. Remember every vile word and the numbing pain that ruled my existence. That one day perhaps she might need me for a bit of entertaining conversation.

I don't believe she did.