revolving door – may 28 2014

My mother is an unstoppable revolving door.
She wakes up, always finishing one last job, always reminding us one last time, always checking one more thing. She goes to work, always finishing everybody else’s “oh and one last job” always fixing our “mum i forgot this one more thing” always promising to look for her missing career “one last time”. She comes home and cooks the same dinner with the same one missing ingredient she forgot to buy, always asking if we have one more thing to do for school before we completely give up for the night, always starting the one mores she’ll finish one last time in the morning. Even when she sleeps she thinks, one more thing, one more list, one last time.

My mother’s an unstoppable revolving door.
She spins round and round and round and round, dizzying me just to look at her. One time, she went away with her friends for 4 nights, and my Dad’s far too familiar with the Patriarchal system that our society sustains (far too familiar for my liking) and I automatically assumed the position of Mother because I couldn’t stand to watch our house crumble down after the one last nail my mother had hammered into the wall one last time to allow it to stand one more night. And I was more like one of those outdated, swing open right into the person walking out of the store, semi automatic, half functioning doors (which makes my Dad one of those stiffened lock wooden rotting doors you imagine in ancient castles, and my brother a 4 code, retina identifying, morse code padlocked safe door that belongs to government intelligence agencies) and all I kept thinking as I kept getting jammed with the force of people walking in and out, the one mores and one lasts that kept being swung my way, was…my Mother is not a brute force. She’s small and soft and gentle and kind and she pulls enough weight to kill her.

See, my Mother’s an unstoppable revolving door.
She swings and swings and swings and swings and she lets people come and go and to and fro, and she’s always there for the kid hanging on to her shirt tail, begging “one more thing”, and for the broken heart’s dashing into the street and screaming at the back of a head “one last time”. Please. Let me tell you one more time, one last time, how much my Mother isn’t an unstoppable revolving door.

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