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INTP—there'd been some discussion about personalities—what fits, doesn't fit, and so forth and so on; so this is me in so many words: she does not like to be led out of the dark like a dog; she wants to be her own fire, her own star; she wants to be the brightest constellation in her own sky.
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I would like to think she prefers me; because like me, she says so much by speaking nothing. I know which refusals are final, and which are only by play. I know which gesture goes with which object, which feeling. I would like to believe this power will last forever—except I already know will not for any mother. One day, we will find each other entirely strange to each other. I wonder if I can avoid disappointment if I steel myself early enough, fast enough; but something tells me that it will not be something I can manage, categorize, even if I had all the time before time and all the time after to prepare.
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