I love the smell of my mother’s hair after she washes it. I love the feel of the scratchy stubble on my father’s face before he shaves. But I’ve never been able to tell them.
But the lucidity of her old age allowed her to see, and she said so many times, that the cries of children in their mothers' wombs are not announcements of ventriloquism or a faculty for prophecy but an unmistakable sign of an incapacity for love.
My mother always told me that there is only one way a woman can be truly safe in this world. And that is to be fiercely, inarguably, and masterfully talented. This is different than being intelligent or even educated.
I watch the sky progress through its morning paces, the light turning from rose to saffron as the sun ascends, its rays like ribbons tangling in the tops of trees.
Mrs. Sussex said Byron’s loss would grow more bearable. But here was the nub: he didn’t want to lose his loss. Loss was all he had left of his mother. If time healed the gap, it would be as if she’d never been there.
We are bastards of the gods, Sorvus, you and I. I once shared the dream you seem to think you are now living. The dream of living here, in Northbrook, the birthplace of our mothers." Thais turned his head to the trees. He heard something. "Such decep...
Through the grace shown to us in the gospel, there is something distinctly Christlike about a mother's love for her child.
My dad, who my mom always refers to as DH for Darling Husband, was protrayed as a 'let's look on the bright side of things' kind of guy, the pillar my everbumbling mother leans on in times of distress.
There she was, the mother of me, like a lit plinth, Heavenly, though I was reared to find this kind Of visitation impractical; she was an unbearable detail Of the supreme celestial map, Of which I had been taught that there was No such thing.
I use two toothbrushes. One is for my anus, though I can never remember which one. Both toothbrushes belong to my mother-in-law, so I’m incentivized to be forgetful.
When describing myself, I don’t use superlatives. Just normal latives. And if I use the same word more than once to describe myself, it’s a relative. This is how I became my own father. And mother.
I sympathize with a mother who has three mouths to feed—especially if two of those mouths are on her face. With a woman like that I’d listen twice as hard for doublespeak. I’m pretty accustomed to picking up on political rhetoric.
I love how sincere she is. She makes a mannequin look like Mother Theresa, though she looks better naked. And I hope she thinks I look better naked than a dead woman.
My mother-in-law got so angry at me she vowed she’d never speak to me again, and I smiled and gave thanks for the little miracle God worked in my life.
I’m as efficient as a fish ant, I’m as mythical as a productive government employee, and I’m the kind of lover your mother would approve of. Ask her—she’ll tell you how good I am in bed.
I wonder: instead of retreating and hiding, instead of pining for the way it was, what if I accept the way it is? This strikes me as both the most obvious thing in the world and the most profound.
He told me he had a wife and daughter, and then he showed me a picture of an 8-year-old girl, to which I said, “Don’t you think she’s a bit too young to be a wife and mother?” Fucking pedophiles.
She wondered what he really saw when he looked at her. God, she hoped she didn’t look like his mother or anything. That would be veering into a Hitchcock shower scene that she really didn’t want to be the star of.
Those who have witnessed executions say there is no sound worse than the weeping of mother watching her son being put to death. They're wrong. There is one sound that is worse. There is silence.
The benevolent gentleman is sorry; but, then, the thing happens every day! One sees girls and mothers crying at these sales, always! it can't be helped, etc.; and he walks off, with his acquisition, in another direction.
Did I come into this world thru the womb of my mother the earth just so I could talk and write like everybody else?
