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Your mother loves you.

This is not a hope or an assumption. This is a fact that you know down to your very soul.

Your mother loves you.

Sometimes she may forget that she does, or even that you exist, but at the end of the day she loves you.

Somedays you’re not quite sure if you love her back.

It’s not necessarily a rebellion, you don’t particularly resent her or anything- love is just such a broad subject that you haven’t had time to fully examine all the nooks and crannies to make sure that you fill the requirements for ‘love’ of another human being.

What is love?

Love, noun, a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.

You’re not sure if you’ve ever really felt anything that’s ‘deep’.

Certainly, if your mother was not here anymore you would be quite put out. It would pose quite the complication. Some plans would have to be altered, a few dropped, you might simply be lost for a time.

If your mother was gone it would be a great drawback.

But would you miss her?

Would you long for her company after she had gone?

You would miss the perks that comes with having a parent, yes. A roof over your head, living in a virtually tax-free world, food at your discretion.

You would miss having a parent.

You are still not quite sure if you would miss your mother as a being though.

She would be gone, simply not here anymore. That does not mean that your life has to end. You do not have to halt your life simply because someone else’s ended. Life should not be ruled by death and you refuse to let it rule you.

Your mother is not dead though.

She is somewhere in a back room, running through programs and codes and vodka. Removed from the outside world from whence she came. Nothing exists outside of her little cove. Not you, not your house, not the ocean that you spend hours watching for simple lack of anything better to do- nothing else exists.

Your mother loves you.

You know this.

She may be a little forgetful, but she does.

Or she will.

When her code is written, compiled, and running.

When she’s run out of liquor within arms reach.

When she’s had time to catch up on sleep.

When she opens that door and sees you sitting on the couch reading or simply sitting.

She’ll smile and say ‘Rosey’ and hug you and give you a too-wet kiss on the top of your head.

She will make you grilled cheese and chocolate milk and feed the cat tuna from a can.

She’ll sit down with you and watch a movie and complain about how tired she is.

She will fall asleep and you will turn off the movie and cover her in a blanket and set aspirin and water near her.

You will go upstairs and knit, or read, or chat with whoever’s online.

Your mother will have a headache in the morning but will make pancakes and orange juice and open your curtains too early and wake you up.

You will eat breakfast and she will smile at you from across the table and tell you how pretty you’re getting.

She will look at the time and sigh and help you put away dishes before heading back into that dreaded room.

But for that short time- she will remember you.

She will know you are there and ask about your life and your little friends and what book you’re reading.

She will love you.

But then she will be gone and you will sit and watch the ocean and pet your cat.
You will ponder, not for the first time, life and love and what they mean and why you can’t seem to feel them.