Generational

I have to remind myself too often that Sanna and I are not the same person, but I forget. Maybe my mother was a better parent (likely) or I was a more compliant child (less likely) or my disposition and behavior are remembered inaccurately and flatteringly (middling possibility). There are stories of my rare tantrums, including one particular one in which I screamed at my mother that my swimsuit smelled like fish and, thus, I hated her. I was three. Sanna is almost three.

I feel like I know my mother’s love when I press my sleeping children close to me. I am able to have her again in only this thin layer, but she is there around us, gilding us in our embrace.

Today, I am buying life insurance.