Memory is a funny thing when it is overcome by the present. Especially as the faded images of youthful wonderment are replaced with the angsty rebellion of young adulthood. When the innocent perceptions are thwarted by the absolute bitterness that comes with growing up. Betrayed by time, my promises broken, because when you were made promises as a kid, they were everlasting and evergreen.
Its painful seeing the ones you love, ignoring all the signs and times of instruction, and care, and understanding, and some how allowing themselves to twist it all into something horrific. Maybe its that I have witnessed true terror in the stories of those in my life, who have had awful terrors done upon them, that I can't quite see the demonizing of a saint.
Memories fluctuate like water. Like a wave that kissed the shore, and returns to strike it hard. Water that was once cool, and refreshing, now boiling to cause damage. Where did the shift even happen? When will, if ever, the world truth become clear, and the colors sorted out, instead of seeing in this black and white. Because, surely the world is not black and white, light particles that dance in the atmosphere being shattered into the sun, they create the colors. Prism patterns across space and time, on the surface and internally.
How do we only see ourselves, and our own self-hatred, and completely ignored the hands that have tried in vain to guide a bitter soul into some path of light.
How can you crucify a saint? A maternal instinct to protect, to provide love, to instruct, even with their own flaws, how can you burn them at the stake? Because you didn't like the way they spoke to you, because you couldn't accept a lecture, simply because you sucked at keeping notes.
Memory is this fickle thing. And its becoming harder to see the point in trying anymore, if the rose colored glasses have been replaced by glasses that are shards of their glass, that bleed out, and cause them some sort of victim hood.
The saint remains a saint, and you can only hope with time that they might see that, but you have your doubts. Memory is a funny thing, and none of us see it the same, but none of us should simply assume the worst, that is why the world suffers, has suffered and will suffer. Because none of us will take the time to inspect ourselves, will only point out the filth on the others hands, instead of the feces that has smothered our arms, so that it is impossible to embrace.
I will always love my mother, and that is something that not everyone can do, because she has always been the guiding light, even as she faced her own extinction, she has always been the saint for me. Memory is a dastardly thing, that it can be ignored, to create a present wrong, freed from the context of everything that came before, shame on that view.
This saint does not deserve that. Surely, she does not.
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