My nineteenth velvet box, opened.
My mother. My fiery, judgemental mother.
Lets start with the bad bits.
She doesn't take anything lightly. She judges every little thing I do, and takes things at face value, not bothering to consider what lies underneath the surface. She hates it when other people are right and she's not.
Despite those few bad things, my mother is an absolute saint. She has to be the most wonderful person in my life. She listens to my problems, she sits there while I ramble on about boys, girls, life, depression, happiness. She stood proud as I walked into my first day of school, she was the one who dried my eyes when I first had my heart broken.
Through everything and anything, my mother has stuck by me.
No matter what shit I get into, or how much I scream at her for not letting me have it my way, she is always there, on the other end of a phone, or at my bedroom door, or waiting for me, smiling, as I come home upset.
In many ways, I am so like my mother. We have a sordid obsession with neatness. I like the same things as her, the same chocolate. We think in the same way most of the time. And sometimes, I swear we can read each others minds. She knows me, inside and out, and that sometimes scares me. Because no matter how good I become at lying, she just sees right through the façade as if its made out of paper.
There was a time I didn't like my mother, because I believed that I had inherited her worst traits. Her short temper. Her neatness. Her oily skin.
But then I realised that oily skin means less wrinkles. Her short temper is her passion for life, as is mine. And neatness means that I can always locate my socks.
My mother is the one thing in my life that remains constant.
Everything else is variable.
But I can always count on my mother to be the same, every day, to keep me sane and to keep me grounded.
I love her, from the depths of my heart, and I will always love her. No matter how much I hate her sometimes, no matter how much she might piss me off at other times, I would do absolutely anything for her.
I love you, Mum <3
Nineteen velvet boxes, open and redundant.