Choose love.

mother. daughter. semi-reformed punk rocking girl drummer. also, somebody's wife. i like loud music and comic books and the sound of my sons laughing and cool crisp autumn mornings with leaves crunching under my feet. i like cooking, but i am a miserable baker. i like people who color outside the lines. i like to write, about my life, about things that matter.

wisconsin ex-pat, exurban twin cities dweller. believer in people. choose love.
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Yesterday, my mother drove two hours from Cincinnati to take me to breakfast. While my hungover stomach caved in around itself in the Columbus Red Roof Inn, I prayed to the gods of clarity to make me a good son. I’ve spent too many years taking out my own emotional confusion on my mother because she never stops loving me. She would rather be with me than without me, even when I’m a dick, and I’ve spent years fashioning that into some sort of license.

I make it through a breakfast burrito, and keep the narratives about last night’s reception minimalist. We have two hours until she drives me to the airport, so we go to Goodale Park.

My mother is the kindest person a lot of people know. I often tell her this, and she consistently assures, β€œYou haven’t always known me.”

Just. Read it, okay?

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  8. jeanhannah reblogged this from kiss-distinctly-american and added:
    “I really tried hard to be the best person I could be. So that if I died it mattered.”
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    This is really good.
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    "My mom was seven, learning that grief did not involve sadness. You die, then a hole closes around where you were,...
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