No 4: CITRIC ACID

PHOTO BY LUCIA AUERBACH

MARIAM JALLOW

you asked me to hold this for you

while i was dissociating in a store parking lot and here it is in my hand. thank you, mother.

and you let me stay in the car while you went grocery shopping like when i was little.

it’s just so fucking rainy outside and i am disillusioned by how nobody cares. no umbrella in sight. no couples running to their car under one jacket. so i lock the doors and protect the valued items in the vehicle.

like the folded cvs receipt near the stereo. it reminds me that i’ve missed all of my appointments in the last six months. you know, the appointments that you call the doctor’s office for on my behalf? mother, you must understand that i can’t survive anxiety’s shitty chokehold on my tongue. especially when speaking on the phone to underpaid receptionists, to mere strangers.

and i guess that teenagers are always strangers to their parents. and that it’s assumed i'll one day admit to you all the things i once swore i didn’t do when we are both old, when i am finally the woman who goes into the grocery store. 

but like the people who go to california to die, i am unsure of what i will eventually tell my mother. 

and watching ladybird off a pirated website made me ask myself if maybe i act too harshly towards my overprotective mother. she’s probably only trying her best to shield me from a world that can be cruel.

and clicking away at all the pop-up ads to watch the movie made me realize that i fucking hate pirated websites. (or maybe that she just wishes i could stay young with her forever, where she could always be needed)

so mother, sometimes i know that you wish i could forget how to peel oranges so you can teach me something again. so you can feel valued by the child who is withering away from your grasp. so i can be amazed by the way your strong hands easily peel the thick layer of skin off fresh produce.

but i cannot apologize for growing up. for wanting to strike down the shields you’ve created to protect me. or for the things i may never tell you about when we’re old. 

so when i build a house on the hills you’re always ready to die on, you shouldn’t worry. in return, i can promise that i will always save you a seat at the dinner table. and when you are finally seated, i will pour you a glass of citrus squeezed from the orange you asked me to hold for you.

and when my life parts us as i grow older, the citric acid will burn my tongue while i am away from you. it will wail to me: call home, they miss you.