Looking Through the Emotional Dust

I was in the parking lot of a local supermarket today and could not help but overhear a mother talking (yelling?) to (at) her adult daughter. 

"They don't want the kind of shoes you have, they want old beaten up shoes. How could you think that they would want your shoes. Don't you know better...."

The conversation trailed off as I walked to my car, hoping to not hear the rest, but also wanting to get a good look at the daughter. Was she looking at her mom? Did she roll her eyes like I did at 16, or do grown daughters not do that with their adult moms? I could not see her face but I did think she was probably grateful that in life, cartoon bubbles don't pop over our heads broadcasting our thoughts for all to read. 

I hear these kind of interactions frequently, just with different words and different players. I hear them at schools and at stores,  from people I know well and random encounters. 

I listen and really, I never judge because I am not on that road. I never will be. 

I feel like an outside observer of an archeology dig that is mysterious to me; one that I may never fully understand, but I am  eager to uncover the treasure, so  I peer through the emotional dust.

I have this image of what it would be like to be a grown woman with a mother.  

I know that my image is of A mother, not my mother. 

I have no idea what kind of woman my mother would have been now that I am nearing 40. Since it is my image, I can make it look and feel like anything I want it to be. I don't have to live with the reality of  strained interactions and shattered expectations that I hear from so many women. I mean if I am going to make it up, it is going to look like those old Folgers Coffee commercials. We sit and talk and love coffee and all is right with the world because all we have to worry about is the quality of our coffee in the percolator. Its my damn fantasy, after all.

Look, I do hear plenty of women talking with deep love and respect for their mothers. I hear of important connections and conversations and  of joy experienced with grandchildren. I hear of shopping, advice taken and advice ignored with a polite smile. I see a process of self reflection that take adult daughters on journeys towards mothers they have previously walked away from.  

I watch it all removed from my self, hovering over experiences wondering what it would be like for me. I can only stay in that place for a moment, because it becomes a painful fantasy. I don't have an adult vision of my mother and so I am forced to create the Folger's commercial. 

Perhaps if I could just remember her voice; hear it in my heart at the times when I ache, maybe then I could live on memory lane for a little bit longer, but for now, I just visit.