From one to the other

Liza remembered her mother very well. A tall heavy set brunette who worked harder than any person she ever knew. As a child, Liza was less than impressed with this woman though. While the two could be kind to each other, it seemed all things would turn into relentless bickering. The things her mother did would drive Liza into a rage. How could she be from someone so annoying? But, she never dared share these thoughts for her mother was her soul care giver. Never bite the hand that feeds you. Still, the anger teethed itself on her consciousness, waiting for a slip up to bare its fangs. Instead Liza wrote.  She would pick up a pencil and contain her diary with every annoyance and nuisance her mother made her feel. She thought at some point her feelings would change. Maybe even evolve but it seem only her anger grew into a bigger badder thistle briar. Liza began making excuses that filled every lined page of her diary and most entries started like this: 

“If only my mother was less talkative, maybe then I could get along with her…”

Excuses flooded her even now for the way she had acted. It was hormones, or maybe teenage angst that had driven her to such negative altitudes. Liza could never find one good thing about her mother and she felt like she had wasted her adolescents because of it. All of those young years spent hating the one person who was on her side. 

Her wake up call was the day that her mother died. 

“I can't believe she’s gone.” Liza had sobbed but something worse than death ate at her. “I wonder if she knew that I hated her.” The thought ran though her mind for months, even years to come. Had she ever really tried to love her mom? How could she ever make up for it? Liza wished so desperately to take it back but there was nothing to be done. The door of opportunity was locked and the key thrown away. There were no happy stories, only vengeful ones written with blood and tears. Ones of self-hatred and loathing. Ones of an ungrateful child.

Liza recognized herself as this much but at times she wished she could read her journal again. Her heart ached to acknowledge the kind of horrible monster she truly was. Only the book had been burned, along with any doubt of her selfishness. Although she had thought about tearing it to pieces or simply throwing it away, it didnt seem permanent enough. No. Burning the book would make sure that no one could read the awful things she had thought of her mother. No one would know, ever. That a woman who bore the pain of labor and took on the weight of being a single mother had raised such an obnoxious tragedy. But they say that the world runs in parallels and history is on repeat.  

Now Liza had a daughter of her own named London. Liza wondered how her mother had felt raising a hateful child such as herself, but as the years went on she began to learn. A darling angel could become a devil in disguise. Sparks began igniting in those blues eyes and flames off the sharpened tongue in ways that Liza knew all to well. The fluxing temperance, the closed doors, the tantrums all spelled one thing. So it was no surprise when London locked herself away after small arguments or glared at her mom for saying the wrong thing. Even finding the girl asleep with a blue leather notebook, clutched close to her chest. It was happening and Liza believed it was karma for her own behavior. It comes around and it goes around. She deserved to live through the selfish hate and anger that her mother had. Although Liza had been so willing to get rid of her own, her hands now itched to find London's diary. That blue leather bound jacket, the lined pages and decorative cherry blossoms called to her. They beckoned her to take a peak, promising to burgeon with the hateful words she needed. The words that could prove she was no better than her own mother. But the journal never appeared. Some days Liza would be home early and commenced a search. It would be neither on London's desk or in her bookshelf. Nor was it tossed on the floor, shoved under the bed or beneath a pillow. Liza could admit that her daughter was better at hiding than she ever was. In fact, Liza had never taken any precautions to hide her diary from view. She just never worried about who would read or see it. 

Then, as if answering a prayer, it showed out of the blue, like the cover would suggest. It was willing to show Liza the whole truth and dared her to touch it. And she did. In her hands it was light, not chunky or even rough from use. She didn’t know how much she craved to find it and read it, and to know if her daughter loathed her as much as she had loathed her own mother. Maybe knowing the pain was real would settle the score between her and a ghost. The first page had a place for a name but many repeated across the cherry blossom background. There in navy ink was a name that anyone would expect, London. It was scrawled and scribbled in many places, like she had tried to find the perfect way to right her name but made a mistake and decided to give it purpose. Liza’s fingers wove their way through the letters. Finding every bump and ripple the indentions made. Then another texture rose from the surface, just as promised. Meaningful words pressed in ink from the other side of the page. She felt the words, only making scant guesses at what they could be. “If only my mother…” Liza thought she could feel the beginning of the sentence and even whispered it to satisfy an urge to be right. Should she dare turn the page and reveal it? What things will she find? Her heart begged to be crushed by an honest truth. That she was no more perfect than her own mother.

“What are you doing?” a voice spoke from the doorway and Liza looked up to see a younger version of herself standing there. Worry struck London's face, she was no good at hiding any emotion. Maybe that is how Liza knew the anger was coming. With a clap, Liza closed the book, staring at the shiny blue, and shiny blue staring back at her.

“Don’t do it.” Liza wanted to say. “Don’t hate me they way I did my mother.” but instead she just smiled and put the book down. “I was just admiring the color.” The words rolled off her tongue, so smooth and innocent, just like her mother had done years ago. It felt the same even, like sharing a secret without ever telling it. Whether it was for the sake of saving herself of her daughter, Liza didn’t know, but she did know that she lacked the courage to embrace the truth. She just couldn't get the words to come off of her lips “Please don’t do it.”