i've recently started to hate capital letters. not intentionally; it's just become another aesthetic peculiarity of mine. and now it seems weird. i have saved notebooks piling up on a shelf from seventh grade until now. and now it feels weird.
i wasn't sure what I was looking for, but i went searching anyway. i felt the urge to shuffle through things in the old desk in the corner of the basement.
i found notebooks. college notebooks. my mother's college notebooks.
and it feels weird. because now i know we are more alike than i originally thought.
i haven't read them all yet. and part of me feels as though i'm intruding on her history, her private thoughts. and the creepy idea of my daughter, if i should have one at some time, reading through my notebooks, crawls into my head. there are poems, huge stacks of scribbled poems and typewriter written poems.
and she liked to mimic e.e. cummings (because she never capitalized her "i"s)
they are a part of her, a part i don't see. she doesn't write anymore, not that i've ever found or noticed.
but some of these pieces feel so familiar, tangible, as though I could have written them.
and we're really not that different.
it's pulled me into a moment where i want to hug her, and tell her everything.
but this girl, this poet whose heart i've found--i find it hard to see in my mother
becca g------ and becky p-----
just don't seem to be the same.
it seems, i am my mother, but before she even was, in '75.