She desperately wanted me to love her but she never gave me someone to love.

 

 

My mother had finally done it. It was her final attempt at having her own existence validated. She had always been searching for validation but could never accept it even if she ever found any. Her severe sabotage always took over, making her utterly inaccessible and hardly approachable.

 

 

She had come in the middle of the night, highly inebriated as usual, and the scene was impossible. Her body had been potentially mutilated by sea creatures, or maybe the sea itself tore her apart. It was too soon to tell. Authorities had just arrived on the scene by the time I happened upon the inexpressible sights out of my condo bay window, which overlooked my once serene ocean view. I immediately recognized her belongings and quickly pieced together what had happened and what was currently happening in front of my view. The glass stage floating in the shallows of the beach that the condo association had built for weekend evening enchantment performances was now a scene of disarray. Somehow, from the depths of her despair and desperation, my mother had moved what was probably the entire contents of her home onto the glass stage for all the condo dwellers to see from their large bay windows. But she didn't do it for them. It was a production for me. It was a statement. She was moving in. Into my life. Her small, wood stove she had kept on her porch, her rocking chair, her desk, everything.

 

 

At some point she apparently thought it made sense to park her car in her new "water garage" that night. And that was her detriment. If she hadn't driven it directly into the ocean like she had, then she'd certainly be in jail for her antics from that night. But I suppose this was better; finally, relief from her despair and from her impossible longing for contentment.

 

 

I watched from my window in disbelief as they cleaned up her remains. Mostly I felt numb. I teared up a little but also wasn't holding them back and even then, not many fell. My sentiments waged war between being relieved for her relief and being in awe of her brazenness.

 

 

My mother was always brazen, always desperate, always discontent, and never easy to love.