I'll Be Here

mall on Saturday afternoons. 
    Last year she dragged me nearly eighty miles to a bookstore to get a copy of a hardback book signed by a man that served sixty months in an Asian prison because he disrupted a government function by running across a room naked, waving a sign over his head.  Mom thought he was “amazing,” but all I could think about was how shitty that time in prison must have been and whether or not he had to go to the bathroom in his cell.  When I told Dustin about it, he shook his head and said that although he meant no offense, it was perverse that my mother was encouraging me to model after someone that had served hard time.  In prison.  I could see where he was coming from.
    “I know you’re disappointed Willow but give this some time to sink in and you’ll see that it’s really for the best.”  She frowns.  “He wasn’t the right boy for you.”
    I straighten my posture and cock my head to one side. 
    “Oh really?”  This is me being sarcastic.
    Mom sits back and scans my face.  I hate when she does that—when she thinks that she can read my thoughts through my expression.  It makes me want to scream.
    “Yes… really.”  She sighs and then holds up her hand.  “For one,” she lifts a finger, “Dustin is a Capricorn.  A Capricorn. ”
    Jesus.  I don’t know why I even tried to talk to her about this.  My mother and I clearly do not operate on the same wavelength.  Or live on the same planet for that matter.
    I have only myself to blame.  I should have expected this crap.  The bottom line is that my mother doesn’t get me and that’s okay because I don’t get her.  This conversation is just par for the course.  
    With my head still angled to one side I give her what she calls the look .  “So you’re telling me that I should base my love life on an astrological chart?”
    Her thin mouth tightens.  “I didn’t say that exactly, but if we’re being honest, I’ll just point out that it couldn’t hurt.  You need to find a good Libra or even an Aquarius.  That boy that came by here with flowers—”
    “Who?  Jason Knopp?  That was when I was in the sixth grade!”
    She leans back.  “Well, what about Alex?  He’s—”
    “ Not who we’re talking about!”  We are so not going there.  I’m depressed enough.
    Mom looks exasperated.  “Honey, you didn’t even let me finish!”
    “The second reason,” she raises another finger, “is that you could never have been a part of Dustin’s family.  His father—the venture capitalist ,” she says this in a disgusted rush as if it’s a curse word, “donated money last year to Ned Miller’s campaign, and you remember perfectly well Jake telling us that Miller was deep in someone’s pockets and was ready to sell our sand to the highest bidder.” 
    Yes.  Selling sand is a real thing, and if you live on the coast and your mother is married to a marine biologist this is the kind of thing that gets discussed at the dinner table.
    “And the third?”
    She flicks her ring finger upright.  “The third reason that I know that it never could have worked between you and Dustin Rant is because I’m your mother and I can see these things.  You are just like me when I was your age.  You can try to—”
    I don’t even wait for her to finish the thought before interrupting.  I’m sure that it will be something like “you changed for him, blah, blah, blah,” or something along those lines.  I don’t care.  My mother used the five magical words that can effectively ruin any conversation between us.  You.  Are.  Just.  Like.  Me. 
    “God!  Can you just stop with the judgment and be supportive for like five whole minutes?  Is that really so hard?  My boyfriend of two years just—as you so eloquently put it— dumped me—and I’m destroyed and all you can do is tell me what a bad match we made and throw politics at me?  Why don’t you try out being my mom and stop pretending to be my psychiatrist?”
     She is quiet for a few beats and then says, “Willow, this is me being a mom.  I know that you think that you were in love with—”
    “Mom, I don’t think I’m in love with Dustin.  I am in love with him.” 
    Love.  My brain registers the present tense even as I’m speaking and my voice cracks on the word love.  Fresh tears gloss my eyes.  “And after all this time for you to act like I should just shrug it off is insulting.”
    We stare at each other.  My