Impossible to Be Dependent and Free

There wasn’t anything soft about my mother — except her arms — those, soft due to a combination of middle-aged fat brought on by a fondness of fried chicken and pound cake; and skin drenched for years in Lancome body lotion – which she rubbed into her pecan-colored dimply skin after every shower.  I sought them out whenever I needed comfort: I’d lay on them, knead them, press my nose into them so I could inhale her scent.  She wasn’t the type to give big hugs, or wrap her arms around me, but I found a way to be enveloped by those arms my own way.

She wasn’t the type of mom who wanted me to feel loved; she wanted me to feel prepared.  She wanted to know that if anything happened to her (like what had happened to her husband, my father, dying unexpectedly in a car accident) I’d…

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