ArtView May 2015 - Page 18

People always attach themselves to Mum. They get addicted. It only ever goes one way; always in her direction. Eventually, women and men find themselves craving her, like a drug. And she, we, have to leave and start over. But for her, there was only ever one love in this life, one drug, and he’s gone. I never really knew my father, although I have this memory: of waking in the dark and walking into the glow of him watching the television, alone in a room somewhere, the sound turned down low so as not to wake the two of us. He’d touched my hair and we’d sat side-by-side in the flickering light. And that’s it. I remember my father as an instance of light, just a presence beside me. But I’m told I have his long, dark eyes and eyelashes, the same dimple in my right cheek. Though the rest of me is some new animal altogether, Mum said once, laughing. Some new animal. That’s me. ‘There won’t be another like him, you know,’ she’d added, her expression going still and inward, the way it always did when she thought about Dad. ‘It’s kind of nice, to have so much certainty. It means I don’t have to try anymore. I can just be. It’s a relief.’ But that’s what she is known for—trying. Trying to squeeze everybody in; trying to make people feel special, and seen; trying to find the truth in amongst the chaos that makes up the singular state of existence. Mum helps 5 Lim_AstroDaughter_final.indd 5 4/06/2014 11:53 am