In my mother's house I am a caged tiger. I pace the the length of rooms, dreaming of escape, reeled in by the umbilical chord of obligation, fueled by piety.

She builds a house filled with rules and anxiety. I pace the rooms, gingerly.

She arranges her world in a certain way and we must all fit in, elbows bent, feet cramped, contorted to make her happy. And yet I strain to hear the sound of her laughing, for she takes it all too seriously, her desperate quest for a joy that I know not, that she knows not. The joy escapes her clutch, and I am bewildered to help her. Here is a woman who does not take things in her stride. We all drink the poison together.

I try on her shoes. They are too small. She's petite, I am tall.

My mother wants me to be her child. I need the space to be her daughter.