Her Mother’s Daughter
It’s Thursday morning and I have lots of work to do. I still haven’t read the writings my mother gave to me and I’m meeting her for lunch. I don’t want to read her writing and I know I have to. I’ve already read the happy ones, the mini-memoirs of the happy events of her … Continue reading Don’t Want to
So, I’m at the regular meeting spot on the appointed day and the appointed time and there’s no mom. Two weeks ago I missed our meeting because I threw my back out. As is our agreement if either of us misses a meeting, I came to meet her same place, same time, same day. No … Continue reading Again
I want someone to tell me the right thing. I want someone to tell me do or do not do. I want someone to tell me the thing that is going to fix this. I have the trust of my mother at a time when I am the only family member she trusts. When her … Continue reading I Want a Definitive Answer
I spotted her from the car by her rolling suitcase rather than by the scarf she always wears. The scarf, it turns out, is layered underneath the wool cape she has over her head. I call her name as she breathes in and out, a human covered in formless clothing. There is a blanket in … Continue reading At Her Sleeping Spot
Dooley is my family nickname from childhood. It seems most appropriate as a pen name because I will be writing about my family, my mother, her mental illness, and homelessness particularly. I would love to tell you I am embracing anonymity to protect my mother’s privacy. That is part of it, of course. The fact … Continue reading Hi, I’m Dooley.