Ette

My mom killed herself when she was thirty-two and I am more than halfway there. The closer I get, the more persistent the idea that I am condemned to the same fate. Moreso as I have begun to notice our similarities. We were blonde babies who became brunette with maturation and now we dye our hair black. We keep it short too, we find that to be easier. We have the same gaps in our teeth so we smile with our mouths closed. I sit in the darkest corners of my mind and then wonder if I’m feeling what she felt. That’s a hard one to gauge. I’d need to know her deeper and time did not allow for that. But through the sparse memories I have, I see how the ugliest parts of her live on through me. I’ve gone half of my life without her yet I feel like she’s the only one who understands me. How grim is the realization that the only person you can relate to is the same one who chose to leave you?