Today, mum and I were chatting about our relationships again. Now that my dad isn’t there, it is easier to talk about the bedroom stuff. It also helps that I am older, and she knows that I was intimately involved with three of four of my relationships. [Haven’t yet brought up the cherry-popping story. To be fair to her, she hasn’t pried either.]
We were discussing romance, and the different definitions it has for each of us. Unsurprisingly, for my parents and later for me, the movie-style magic wasn’t it. We are rather prosaic people with greater interest in comfort than romance.
Anyway, we started talking about my ex. I do talk about him, so that she begins to understand my connection with him; why he was so important; why I couldn’t get over him for so many months. I also hope that she will see why another relationship seems impossible to me, even now almost a year later. It is like his essence has seeped into my skin, and I can’t rid myself of it.
There was profound sadness when we were talking, because she did love him too. She opened her home and heart for him like he was her son. That was at my bidding, when I asked her to treat him the same way she would treat me. And she did. She lectured him, and got mad at him, and told him off, and cuddled him, and teased him, and the works. Those were components of my relationship with my parents, and he got exactly that. The only thing I forgot was that he wasn’t me, and he could never understand where she was coming from.
As the conversation wound down, there was a moment of sad silence. I thought to myself about what would happen if he came back into my life. How would we address the issues of the past? Would we be able to reclaim the joy that we had before? Would I feel like I was coming home to him once more?
The truth is, I have no idea, but the thought terrifies me. I have tended my familial relationships carefully over the years, and fixed rifts before they consumed everything.
This rift though? Seems to be far too late. Sometimes there is just no going back.