You made me super from the start.
I am drowning in a well of words about you,
Don’t you see? Me?

I never thought about a time I’d supersede you.
The time in now.
The time has been ticking.
Without you.

I strain to recall what you told me:
“Brush your hair.”
“Your words, so poignant on the page, but you don’t live them.”
“Iron your pants.”
“Your rage is a cage, and you keep trying to invite people in.
Forcefully.”

You know, there is a paradox I just learned after 40 fucken years.
The harder you push,
the further they are pushed away.
It’s an age-old government hostage negotiator technique.
I wish you would have taught me this sooner.

But still,
You raised me super for 37 years.
And I gave you hell for 37 years.

It’s going on year 4, that you’ve been superseded.
And all I can think about
is how you should have been treated.

I’ve been trying hard to be super since you left.
Trying hard has always been my thing.
It is my superpower and my super villain.
I’ve been trying to wear shoes that don’t quite fit.
And I’m running in circles trying to untie it.

How can I be the matriarch when the Queen is dead?
With nothing and no one over my head?
I always thought I was the boss.
It was a lie I told myself to blanket my insecurities.

But now, I am the boss.
And I can’t find my special sauce.
So my insecurities are cold, exposed, lost.

Beauty is a box.
I keep my red lipstick in it.
Alongside my confidence, flare,
and the days I’m graced with good hair.
Charisma and mint green eye liner.

I dip into the box,
When I’m feeling low,
missing you,
or I have somewhere to go.

But the box is you.
One that you drew.
And now, every time I open it,
My heart aches.
Silent earthquakes.

You made me super from the start.
You gave me too many gifts to count.
MK bags, expensive Sephora gift sets,
Brains, beauty, strength, and other assets.

I was made to supersede you.
But all I want to do is hold your hand.
Maybe I’m doing it wrong.

Rest in Love & Light, Nancy Marie.
The Mother of all mothers.