Wolves

Daily, I watch my mother and I see more and more of myself in her. Daily, I try not to draw the similarities because I don't want to be like my mother.

We lurk in areas we aren't needed because we have a curiosity so vicious it festers in our pores. We feel more than we think and then we think too much.

If something is too long, we don't hem. We don't send it in for altering. We take out our best pair of scissors and we snip. And if the fabric starts to snag, if it begins to gnaw, to fray, we don't take a minute to re-angle. We push the blades harder, we press on with greater ferocity and we pull till we get through to the end. Till something falls.

And when the rains make their descent, as the wind comes howling through the city, making the balcony shudder, meandering buildings and tunnelling through open windows, we don't draw the curtains and board up the shutters. We fling the windows open, grip the cold, hard sill with our pink fingers, and we howl back. We dance with our hands flailing in the air, knees pumping, feet hopping and we rejoice! For the rain has come, we scream hello in the language it is most fluent in. We dance in glee for a celebration is in order. It is a party. And we howl and we dance.

I am my mother, I fear. Let's just hope I have better luck with love in the future.