“I could have lived forever …”  my mother used to say.

It would be her standard response whenever I had divulged some morsel of information that, to her, seemed over the top: Something excessive, extravagant, outside of norms … or something entirely too personal.

Not that she was squeamish. She was keen to see all skinned knees, infected cuts, or random swelling that seemed to come out of nowhere.

But gossip, or taking some unnecessary risk, as she thought of it – especially if it was delivered in the form of news and information – she felt better off just not knowing.

I knew her better, though.

Her mind thirsted for information she could parse.

Her mind could sift truth from fiction as efficiently as she could discern her daughter’s true intentions from her insistence I had........

© The Saratogian