Erlesene Mutterschaft XVIII

„In my frustration and misery I would wind myself up every day as if I were my old toy monkey with my cymbals, listen to myself crash them, and then, nota bene, I would cry and, when I cried, I would long for my mother, not the small dying mother in the hospital but the big mother of my childhood, who had held and rocked me and tutted and stroked and taken my temperature and read to me. Mommy’s girl, except Mommy was not oversized but short and curvy and wore high heels. Your father likes my legs in heels, you know. But then, after I had wailed for a while, I would remember the wet shine of two fallen tears on my mother’s shrunken cheeks and the IV in her blue-veined hand many years later. I did not say, You’ll get well, Mommy, because she would not get well. Who knows how long I’ll last? Not long. And yet in hospice, my mother fussed about food, the sheets, her pajamas, the nurses. A week before she died, she asked me to open her purse and apply a little lipstick because she was too weak to do it herself, and when she lapsed into a morphine haze at the very end, I took out the gold tube and dabbed her thin mouth with the rose-solored stick.



Siri Hustvedt – The Blazing World

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