My Mother Considered Letting Me Go Early.

She mentioned it twice, both times driving the car whilst circambcombanducantortadillaybewildered, saying it was always/only a woman’s right, not any man’s, a sentiment with which I never disagreed, on instinct, before I even knew what abortion was.

She clenched and pounded her fists to the Dodge Diplomat steering wheel, telling me “I would have let you go early if I could have”, pounding the wheel with her right hand, driving me to death, like (almost) all the women in my future life.

Mother hated being a Mother.

In 1967 she thought she was too old to have me. 35 was, in the 1960s, considered potentially too old for childbirth.

She would have let me go early if she had financial resources beyond the coathanger her mother used to let go early my potential cousin, flushed down a Nebraska motel toilet.

Between that and my father being gay my failed but persistent existence opens an existential quagmire into which I have never failed to plunge.

LIFE IS ACTUALLY A LOT OF FUN.

Gad zooks for being alive!