A guy from Las Vegas sets off the train of thought. I have always been drawn to him because his lyrics are elaborate poems too complex for singing but he does it anyway. He is proof that pop music does not have to be simple and only clap on two and four. The image that shows up in my mind is being in Denmark for Thanksgiving when my mom was dying. I must have listened to the latest album when I was there. The song that ignites the memory is one called Hey, Look Ma, I Made It. I am of course projecting but she was not of that opinion. On that trip, I wanted to be vulnerable with her, not knowing if this would be the last time I saw her. She left me hanging worse than a bat in hibernation, didn’t she? She scoffed at my poetry. She thought my tattoo to remember her by was unnecessary and childish. I had come alone the way from California during the biggest holiday of the year thinking that we would spend important time together and she dismissed me. I don’t think I have let another person hurt me that much since my husband said he wasn’t sure he loved me back in 1994. The difference is that my mother didn’t seek to dispel my notions of the situation. She couldn’t or didn’t care. In my endless revisions since then, I have a whole catalog of explanations for that. She was in pain, she was exhausted, she was dying, she was on heavy pain medication, she had taken leave of her senses, she couldn’t see anyone but herself, she was already gone, I missed the train. But reasonable reasons don’t matter. It is still the deepest wound.