8 years ago momma died. We had a complicated relationship at best. As a mother, I find myself understanding a lot of decisions she made, and trying to find forgiveness for the ones I still can’t agree with.
She was complicated, and witty, and often funny. But, as I look back on things I realize she was also a troubled and tortured soul who didn’t have the options I do now to be herself, to realize even the smallest of her dreams, and to just be who she was meant to be. She was buried under expectations of women during a time when women weren’t allowed to even have a bank account for a large part of her life.
How limited she must have felt to have big dreams and feel big things and like weird things and not have anyone around to at least give her validation. There are stories I won’t say here, but her life was complicated and I do feel, now, she did try to do the best she could with what she was given.
I learned to love to read because of her and when I write, I often wonder if she would like it.
**I shared this in Insta and Threads and I was going to add more here, but I can’t find the words. These few will just have to do, I reckon.
Idgie Stark 