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John Palcewski's Journal

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Oh, mom
forioscribe




Her: But who is my mother?

Me: Who would you like her to be?

When I was nine or ten, mostly alone in that dreary house, I never thought of a mother. You can’t possibly miss what you’ve never had. It’s as simple as that.

And after I actually met my mother for the first time I was disappointed by her mannerisms, her impatience, her vulgarity. I’d built up a picture in my mind what she OUGHT to be like, rather than the way she was.






Yes, she was a musician, but she played an accordion, which is the instrument of polka bands. Yes, she loved opera, but she had an irrational prejudice toward symphonies, sonatas, string quartets. She said they were inferior to opera because they contained no discernable story.

So I imagined my ideal mother. She of course just had to accept me and love me exactly as I was. Yes. In her eyes I could do no wrong. Ever. Well, okay, once in a while she could call me on my stupid mistakes and my annoying habits, like impulsiveness and impatience and a thin skin and jealousy. But that wouldn’t stop her from loving me.









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