Mom loved the scent of orange blossoms, and walking on the beach.
I am my mother’s daughter. We were going to take this trip, and then she couldn’t travel.
So here I am. I can travel alone well, but this trip just hurts. Tears alone. Everything hurts.
“It’s sunny and the water’s great.”
Scent of orange blossom; walk on the beach.
From our beginnings, we are expected to trust.
Trust that we are protected,
Over time, trust proves maladaptive.
A child beaten and abused returns to his abusers, hearing the violations are “because he loved you” or “it’s your fault” – messages repeated endlessly into adulthood.
Sharing feelings and fears, then dismissed with “You’re fucking kidding me,” an admonishment of “not dealing with your crazy,” or exploited with lies.
A mother’s confession that she loved a sibling more “we just have a special connection” as the lesser one struggles to care for her.
Trust. A social construct to ensnare the naive and gullible. A requisite to intimacy of all sorts. A conundrum.
Pondering this moment when everything seems good, questioning wisdom of trust, longing to believe.
Trust is the leap of faith.
Trust is silence when a heart overflows and words fail to explain.
Trust me, trust you.