friday, you don’t really look like her, do you? i got that a lot. my response was always a simple no. not the shape of my eyes. or the color. i thought if i had chocolate brown eyes instead of green that i would look like her. if i stared long enough she would see me.! looking at her. & maybe she would look [at me] [with me] curiously, intensely, willingly. with a fraction of the desire to know everything, anything, something?  there’s no blame here. i believe she loved me to the extent that she was able. & still - even through silence thick as fog - i believe she loves me. i mean that. & that’s why my struggle is not about forgiveness. people want me to forgive her, make everything right again. but there’s nothing to forgive. we see the world differently. we always have. i’m ok with that. but it doesn’t mean that it didn’t hurt & confuse the hell out of me when i was younger. it doesn’t mean that i don’t want to fill that space reserved for a mother. but it does mean that i found compassion. compassion is my version of forgiveness?