#creative arts

My mother is a conversationalist.

I've noticed this.

She can speak to anyone about anything.

Cashiers. Strangers in waiting rooms. Neighbors she barely knows.

She collects stories from people who have no reason to give them away.

People like her.

They laugh at her jokes. They admire her patience. They watch her smile and say,

"She's such a good mother."

"What's your secret?"

I know her secrets.

They are not hidden.

They simply stay indoors.

They smell like cigarette smoke drifting in through the back door.

They sound like footsteps that make a room go quiet.

They are words sharpened until they stop sounding like words and start sounding like verdicts.

They are hands that strike first and apologize much later, if at all.

Bruises bloom beneath the skin— purple before yellow, flowers no one waters.

They are children who learn to listen for moods the way other children listen for the weather.

Neglect isn't always empty cupboards.

Sometimes it's being looked through, spoken over, remembered only when someone needs someone to blame.

The strange thing is that none of this makes her any worse at conversation.

In fact, it may make her better.

She knows exactly what people want to hear.

She knows how to nod at the right moment, how to laugh at the right volume, how to ask just enough questions that no one notices they never learned anything about her.

Outside, she is effortless.

Inside, every conversation is a verdict.

She can keep a conversation alive for hours.

But conversations are not the same thing as listening.

Being admired is not the same thing as being kind.

A person can fill every silence in a room and still leave everyone feeling alone.

So yes.

My mother is a conversationalist.

She has always had plenty to say.