Society is like this card game here, cousin. We got dealt our hand before we were even born, and as we grow we have to play as best as we can. - Louise Erdrich

I want to see the story. More than anything, I am frustrated by the fact that I’ll never know how things turn out.

To join the company of women, to be adults, we go through a period of proudly boasting of having survived our own mother's indifference, anger, overpowering love, the burden of her pain, her tendency to drink or teetotal, her warmth or coldness, praise or criticism, sexual confusions or embarrassing clarity. It isn't enough that she sweat, labored, bore her daughters howling or under total anesthesia or both. No. She must be responsible for our psychic weaknesses the rest of her life. It is alright to feel kinship with your father, to forgive. We all know that. But your mother is held to a standard so exacting that it has no principles. She simply must be to blame.

Old love, middle love, the kind of love that knows itself and knows that nothing lasts, is a desperate shared wildness.