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I figure that part of my sadness, now she’s just done and gone, is hurt. Hurt that she never sought to know me, never found me worth the time or just plain didn’t know how to talk to me or… maybe was terrified of me? I mean, in a way, I get it. I was poignantly and patently a logical extension of herself and possibly it freaked her out, so she refused to acknowledge it.

I was a wild child; and it was all of her own pent-up wildness that had pooled inside of me. Inside it swam big, lovely, awkward water beasts that had business to conduct, of a sort, or rather play to conduct. They’d been penned up for centuries but now realized they could crawl ashore and see the sky for the first time in recorded history. Big she-things with thrashing tails and glinting eyes and teeth that could pierce. But they were unschooled. And Mommy would not teach them. I had to wiggle and squirm as they rose to the surface through my childhood sapience, as they crashed to the surface in primordial glee.

I had to name them. Myrrh Curious, and Miranda Bang, Sylvere Flew and Clement Psychowitz, Georgia Spottiswode and Bunny Quatorze. I had to learn what to feed them and what not to. Does Tigger like thistles? Yes. No. I don’t know. Never did figure out the proper diet, and could never bear to discipline them….