Mother by Amanda Krupman Mother. Her. Entangled in the messy acrostic of father's and partner's names. I'm laughing wry tears as I find that becoming a woman means understanding her as a woman. She seemed immense. Universes weren't a concept because Mom encompassed all corners and left turns, keyholes and, more importantly, the monstrous steering wheel. And now, I've swapped the gawky plastic red frames for the periscope, adjusting to view from the outside. Mother Her. Understanding there is a her. A she that explains me. Understanding my explanations to her. Mother. Funny how the childhood awe looked as if it was fading into a place called growing. And it was just beginning to stick its toe into the porous pool of the- the- the something that exists between little girls and mamas, the friction that was there combing out tangles with big brushes and then the alcoves that framed our faces while we shouted truculent, frightening words. It exists breathing in those words, kind of curved around the consonants and vowels that clink against one another in my head, hers. Mother her. she. me. we. (c) Amanda Krupman Amanda Krupman is an writer/actor/editorial assistant in Chicago. Her first chapbook, Obese Love Notes will be illegally copied, stapled, and left at bus stops sometime in the fall of 2001. Submit your comments on this story to our MoxieTalk discussion group by clicking here!   You can also send your comments directly to the author using the form below. You can do both by typing your response below, submitting it and then copying it, going to MoxieTalk, and pasting it into the form there for posting a message. Please include your e-mail address if you would like the author to be able to write you back.   [FrontPage Save Results Component] Copyright 2001 Moxie Magazine All Rights Reserved