Theresa heard the eerie eroticism that plagued her mother’s comments. She felt the acid joy that ripped through the warning of strife, and pain, and inconvenience, and distance and took that pain and meshed it with her own; just like DNA. She tried not to hear what she knew was fact and she tried to push it all beyond what didn’t reach her anymore. What didn’t reacher her was skinny limbs, thick eyebrows, extreme coke bottle glasses, pants that were perpetually too short, embarrassment, lack of cheerleading, shame, and good old fashioned Catholic guilt.
It didn’t reach her then, and she didn’t care. She listened to her mother’s warnings and then warmly changed the subject to something light – something airy, something blue and with speckled butterfly wings. Theresa knew she’d have to think about her mother’s warnings soon, but she didn’t feel like it today. She didn’t feel like anything. A few moments of just being herself again had grown to be an addiction, a want, a framed icon of the Virgin Mary. She wasn’t going to let this new freedom go for anything that might sound self-serving to anyone but her.