[Having been mothered, didn’t I tell myself

“never motherhood”]

Having been mothered, didn’t I tell myself “never motherhood,” even as a little girl watching all other little girls practicing up, dragging their baby dolls around by their plastic necks, watching and thinking, “pass?” I am still the baby doll, I thought, later, watching women I knew trying and trying, I am still the child. Having been mothered, don’t I know everything I’d ever want to about motherhood? Mother, with a cigarette and a cocktail on the porch, waiting for the dog to come back in. Mother, little pit of need. Having been mothered, I know what motherhood really is: loneliness, an attempt to sate it that always fails. Mother with a cigarette and a cocktail, getting in her car to just sit in the driveway, being alone. Never even turns on the radio. Never even puts in the key. From inside, I watched her, to learn to be whatever she was. To learn what of womanhood? Puff puff, sip of drink, stare stare stare around the yard.