My mother misses me. I know for sure she does. We have moments from time to time that remind us of what we had, and I can't speak for her... but sometimes I wish those moments wouldn't happen. I'm good at running away. It's in my genes. My father used his legs, I use my mind.
I've left people just as surely as he did, but in an awfuller way-- I think. Isn't it worse to have someone right in front of you who is obviously gone?
Sure, my best friends an loyal supporters would say "But it's a defense mechanism.... it's okay. It's how you keep yourself safe."
But what is this concept of safe? I don't embrace that kind of life! I like to LIVE. I like to jump off cliffs and keep promises and rear children. I like ferry crossings and Autumn and night swimming. I fear NOTHING. Bad things make my writing better. So why do I turn away so easily?
I don't know. All I know is that I am lucky enough to notice when it happens and address it. Or at least try to address it. Or at least write about trying to address it.
Oh well. Off to visit my characters and let them have their moment of reconciliation. Maybe they'll teach me a thing or two.