I had stayed up late last night with my mother.
She was drinking her bitter decoction, a hypocrite I am because my glass mirrors hers, but when she gets exceptionally plastered she goes on about telling versed memoirs.
Last night it had been about her father.
An acidic man with an absent mind and a too sharp tongue, malice vital to the buds.
She wanted love, amour of the highest kind; forebearer to offspring, proboscis to suffering.
One could have expected the roles of admission she’d go through for it, although her favors were rejected as he did not approve of it.
I felt a deep rooted pain for my mother in that moment, because what she felt then is what I feel now.