it's still about her

I was born by Cesarean section.  It was a mistake, should have been a natural birth but the doctor was stoned and as a result I have a four- inch scar on my upper arm.  He missed the maternal tissue and the knife sliced into my infant limb, I wonder what my water-encased brain made of the incident.  To this day I have a deep-based fear of knives.  I touch them gingerly and reluctantly, only when necessary.  My fingertips are marred by multiple scars, I cut myself a lot, all accidental, honest, the plight of the serious chef.

 I cry easily these days, I miss my mother. Her birthday is Saturday and she's still gone.  I thought I would feel her presence on some subliminal level, a whisper in my ear, a scent of violets in the back of the room, but she has escaped me, cleanly and completely. She would do that.
We were sometimes not the best of friends.  Two overly strong, emphatic women of intensity and loud voice.  More alike than not, damn it all. We had a pain-soaked introduction on that first day, my first day.

If I could just speak to her one more time.  Could the seas of spiritual plasma part slightly and allow an earthly message to penetrate? There is no day in my life that I do not feel her.  Perhaps this is the message.