Happy Birthday to Mama

2/7/14

From the diary of Sarah “do” Lolley

I am a Kentucky girl, now a woman. Took me a long time to know what that meant. I had to drink myself to near nudity and love men who didn’t mean it, to become the person I was always there inside me.

Crazy, Kind, Comforting, and Coo Coo.

Along the way the stars heard my drunken calls and gave me my children. I am a mom. I am the mom. I am the mom to a hurried bunch of yellow-headed future presidents. I am the champion of individuality although in my heart I know that the aspirations of my children will be tested and tried.

They test mine.

When I tell my daughter that she must obey, that she must mind, that she must cooperate, that in truth she must be a woman, I cringe. My mother told me the same things and I dedicated myself to doing the opposite of everything she told me. I had to cry, I had to hurt, I had to loose, I had to break – to love and to know.

Now as a woman I love. I love and I still cry and I still remember every time my soul sprung outward from my face. I don’t look to the heavens anymore, because the heavens already spoke to me. I look downward to my toes and the little faces that laugh and cry like drunken monkeys at my feet.

I know I feel defeated by fate. I know I feel alone. I know I feel unaccomplished. But I feel, I still feel. I still feel that itching sensation of love… and it is a more powerful love because it is one of loss and found. I am surrounded by lost and found. I am surrounded by loss and discovery. I am surrounded by you.

You.

You are my audience. You laugh when I laugh. You come over when I need a come over. You tell me I am not old when my eyes show the ages that were due to me. My stretch marks are on my eyes not my belly. You are dearest to my soul. We chose each other. We chose to grow together. Okay maybe we wrinkle together too. But seriously you are in my heart and in my head, and I will forever dream of you.

Sip of Vodka. At least the Russians kept me sober enough to write tonight.

In the end. There is none. Isn’t that awesome. And tomorrow? I will be hung-over from life, and love, and a place that we all know… that plateau of freedom to be me… or you.

OMG… do I sound like the Olympics! Okay let’s be snow fairies and pretend Stalin never happened.

Insert “Swan Lake”

Journalist

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