![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() We now see each other once a year, on Christmas day and as that day approaches I am filled with both nostalgia and unease. ![]() It is only at some remove, both in age and distance, that I have been able to recognise the power and range of her fevered imagination, her theatrical genius. Her brain is swollen with fantastical scenarios and characters it is like a crowded prison, a prison she has been tasked with running but over which she does not have complete control. She shouted wild threats and lamentations into the air, her eyes vacant as she entered her own forest, chasing her madness like a cat would its tail. Without acknowledging my presence she tore at the curtains, almost pulling them to the ground. I remember once inexpertly drawing the curtains together and she – my mad mother – strode into the room, as though she had sensed an impropriety and needed immediately to address it, her anger already dashing against the frail structure of her body. I was alone, deep within that forest, interpreting gestures observed through the gaps between close-standing trees. In the forest of childhood, truths are obscured. For years I didn’t see it, even though I was present as my mother plotted her strange course to lands known only to herself. ![]()
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