There is a clumsy spastic dance that takes place in my head when I think of the two mothers. Conflicting they are in their steps like an American dancing with a European to a mash up mix of Wassoulou and Hip-hop in a disco in Bangkok. This schism that takes place when I think of the two; one known from many years of proximity, the other only known by a name and what I piece together in the mirror. This dance of theirs so erratic, so alien to each other pull and contorts me in every direction. Loyalty fights questions of identity. Familiarity battles a yearning for a home. Love quarrels with hate. This is my mothers day weekend.

For many the weekend focuses around the mad scramble to get mom that gift that will symbolize your appreciation for the many years of service she put into raising you. Not to mention the birthing of you which is a celebrated feet in and of itself. Brunchs are scheduled, gifts are exchanged, and in Rochester everybody and the mother(literally) go to Highland Park for the Lilac Festival. This weekend symbolizes the start of summer or maybe spring……..I don’t really know which but I guess it really doesn’t matter.

As I wriggled my way through the throngs of over weight people, past all the food vendors and beer peddlers, to where the “real” focus of this event the lilacs were I couldn’t help but notice the beat. The rhythm of that song, the absurdity of the dancers grew increasingly faster and more static. A wild gyration of past, present, and future seemed to meld the two ideals together. Children that looked like their mothers walked side by side, admiring the sweet smell of the season. They laughed together, they exchanged stories, and they just existed together without the complication of who belongs to who. I couldn’t help but be drawn into the fray within me, wondering which dancer would should take the lead.

By the end of the day as I walked back to my car it had grown clear that neither one had stepped up to the forefront. And it became increasingly clear to me that there might always be this duplicity that exists between the mothers. I may never have a decisive absolute in the matter, nor may I ever find the peace between the two ideals. Am I inclined to pick a side or shall it always be that these two dancers go about their existence within me, co mingling their conflicting styles. It is my single hope that maybe in the future, that their dance evolves into something more graceful. I think a waltz.  Yes a waltz would be nice.

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