Nothing personal

By Deborah Lattizori | Apr 16, 2011

I ask my mother

What was it like when I was born?

I don’t remember, she says.

They drugged us good in those days.

But I didn’t want you.

Nothing personal.

Your grandmother wanted me to be a singer

So I went to New York, sang in some cafes.

Your father wanted me to be a mother

So I bought those awful tent tops

And in the ninth month, tied the hair up

Off my neck so as not to mind the heat.

 

But what was it like when I was born?

I had to stop looking in the mirror, she says,

Then she pauses, takes a drag of her cigarette.

Yeah. Too bad. Too bad.

She looks at her long slender fingers.

 

I wanted to play the piano.

 

Deborah Lattizori is a writer and poet.  She lives in Belfast with her partner, two dogs and four cats.  She likes to type without using capitals.

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