Writing: Frosting and Fire
My mother always liked to remind me that she was the first woman in my life. Actually she likes to remind whomever I’m dating, and to avoid the wrath of any would-be gods, I go along with it. However, there’s the reality your mother made for you and the reality you live. My Frosting and my fire; she is close. Always close.
She has made my life the best it can be. She has wrecked my life to pieces. She has made me and unmade me, sometimes twice in one sitting. She pulls the trigger when I put the barrel to my eye. She will make me hurt, and hurt everyone i know, and because of that power it is difficult for me to say that I love anyone.
If you want a taste of this myth, go see what she writes. What you’ll find in her writings is the smell of the leather on the lash, the dull bruise of the iron pushed into your side, you’ll feel the heat of guilt, the tremor of your own cowardice. I don’t know if you’ll ever feel what I feel and that’s the difference between us. For you there is the oyster you were born into, and for me there is only the ache of biting down on frosting and fire, and the mystery inside each bite.