“You are just like mom!” my or-so-I-thought-confidante sister yells at me.
Says the girl screaming at me because I said she was stressing me out by something she was saying. I don’t even remember what it was about. This same girl, the day before, stormed off from Auntie Anne’s in the mall and went MIA for 45 minutes because of a miscommunication between her and our 18-year old and 14-year old sisters. She thought our youngest sister said she wanted an original pretzel. But my youngest sister said she didn’t say that. So the sister who would soon be yelling at me that I am “just like mom” yells at the three of us, “I don’t want anything. This is too stressful.” It’s a fucking pretzel. That is just like mom.
I don’t remember what I said it was that was stressing me out but I will always remember the things she said afterward. Mean, hurtful, cut-throat words regarding life experiences of which I confided in her. The things she was saying were so ridiculous. So ridiculous yet so hurtful.
Close to three months have passed since all of her awful words and I am still hurt. It’s not holding-a-grudge hurt but more of an aching sadness because she was the one person who I felt like understood me and wanted the best for me and viewed me as a great woman who was too hard on herself. And maybe all of those things are still true but those truths won’t bring shallowness to my wound.
It has since scabbed over and tiny pieces of grit are falling away from my skin. The scab will turn into a scar, and I’ll know the scar is there for an amount of time I am unsure of today. And I’ll notice the scar from time to time and remember the hurt. How long will pass between the time-to-time I am unsure of today. Eventually I’ll see the scar as a right of continual passage into womanhood and sisterhood and humanhood.
The timespan of healing is uncertain, but one thing I do know for sure is that I am not just like mom.