Jesus, Child, what have you done with your hair? I tried to teach you pride in your polish, and I failed. I tried to teach you insensitivity, too, and here you are over-feeling the world. I had no idea I was such an ineffective mother. If only you had kept the journals, asked for photocopies, something. You would have seen more. You were not wanted? You were a burden? Of course you were not wanted! Of course you were a burden! Had I caught on sooner, I probably would have gotten rid of you all together. Imagine how different we'd be. Me, alive and amazing; you, with a belly full of pie and casserole, tugging on some poorly dressed woman's apron strings. I was a single woman. I had plans, Honey. But here I am, dead and free: I could be anywhere. Yet, of all the places I could be, I am exactly here, witnessing your under-whelming hair. Want and Burden have nothing to do with it. I loved the hell out of you, my brooding, thin-skinned daughter. No question. Cut out the garbage-picking, and you'll see that.
I hate coming to the library with you. You could do anything. Garrison's checks are plenty. (I did that for you. You don't understand; but you're welcome.) It smells like my father here--sweaty shoes and old man beard. Why does everyone dress so badly at the library? I hate sweat pants. I hate the smell of my father, may he rot, but I had to come with you today, Dolores. I need you to see this child, Dolores. This man here (at least he's tucked in his shirt), are you looking? He is unfortunate, I know. He is a pitiful sort of geometry, isn't he? He is a protractor and a time release capsule. No one should live like this. But, see the child. This boy is beautiful. Do you see this light? My God, look at all that light. Do you see? I need you to see this boy. Dolores, please look. Dolores. Dolores. Dolores. Dolor...
There.
Excuse me, Sir. Oh, you are unfortunate, aren't you? Tsk. Sir. Here, look. Just…
Dolores, your tights. Understand, dear. This is my work.
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