Traces of us

My mother tends to just watch me at times. Most do, with respect to their own children, I imagine. Still I find it curious.

I will be reading on the couch and sense her watching. Pretending not to notice, I will allow her to continue unabashed. As she does, I will begin to more strongly feel who, or what, I am to her.

Funny that I find myself doing the same to her as I grow older. She’ll be in the kitchen, cutting vegetables for dinner while I lay down in the lounge. I will watch her motions and expression. No thoughts. No analysis. Just observation with a sentimental undercurrent.

It is like when I observe a piece of art I have created, be it a song, a sketch or a poem. I try to detach myself as the artist. I listen, watch or read it, again and again, trying to find that middle ground between subjectivity and objectivity.

Both situations I am looking for something. What exactly, I am unsure.

Admittedly, it is partly narcissism. Though perhaps only in the most noble sense of the word. A sense of pride, and concern for these traces of us to bask in the best light they can.

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