Why the despondence? Because it was a Monday? Because dead gray clouds were shrouding the sun? Because Mama had been depressed?
Buddhists teach that it's depression, but not my depression.
A therapist explained, while I'd slept in utero, the chemicals that ferried my mother's malaise through her blood were coursing through mine, too.
Joy Harjo wrote, while she'd listened from an ancestor realm, she'd recognized her mother's song and was called into this world by the music.
Mama sang alto. She, Aunt Gerry, and Aunt Mable sounded like the Andrews Sisters, on those occasions they replaced their sibling cattiness with harmony. When she called me to be born her daughter, sorrow composed her tune in a minor key.
Hands cupped over my ears, I capture the roar of blood flowing through my veins. Mama's lament.
(Read why vacations depress me.)