My Best Friend
My mother was a person with whom I dared to be myself. I could bare my soul to her. She asked only that I be me. She encouraged me always to do my best, and loved me anyway even at my worst.
When I was with her, I felt as a prisoner feels who has been declared innocent. I did not have to be on my guard. I could say what I thought as long as it was genuinely me.
She understood those contradictions in my nature that lead others to misjudge me. She made no demands on the time we spent together. She was easily pleased and often commented she was happier with the quality of time more than the quantity.
With her I breathed freely. I could reveal my little vanities and envies, my vicious sparks, my meanness' and absurdities. In opening them up to her they where lost, dissolved on the white ocean of her loyalty. She understood, with her I did not have to be careful.
Best of all, I could keep still with her. It made no matter. She was like fire that purges to the bone. I could weep with her, laugh with her, pray with her, and tell her my deepest secrets. Through it all, she saw, knew, and loved me.