In our yard, we have a wooden split-rail fence. During the last windstorm, one of the lower rails was irreparably broken. What a bold yet honest metaphor to symbolize the relationship between my mother and me. Some fences can be fixed. Some can't. We couldn’t.

I'm not too sure how old this fence is, just as I don't exactly remember when my abuse started. All I know is that like our fence, my abuse withstood the elements of every season. I never liked spring showers. Raindrops that rolled down the outside of my bedroom window panes were akin to the tears that welled in my eyes and streamed down my face. I would wipe them away just like mother made me her mop to wash away her own childhood abuse.

Summers brought sweet sunshine and a sense of hope. I placed wildflowers in a vase in my room, my safe shelter. They decorated my soul. Daily I took in their scent, appreciating the sweetness of all that is summer. But soon they shriveled, signifying fall, which was for me the saddest of all seasons. It forecasted what was soon to come.

Early on, I understood the phrase "the dead of winter.” It was the perfect metaphor for mother; she often reminded me that she “didn’t care if I lived or died.” I often wondered whether there was any love to be found in her icy, cold heart. My only reprieve came via snowflakes dancing down from the sky forming a thick, white glistening blanket. They decorated bare branches, providing stunning snow scenes. Diminished daylight and tumbling temperatures were just like my weakened, withering, surrendering soul. Winter winds howled mercilessly- just like my abuser. I desperately wanted to tune them out. Still, they seeped into my brain and washed away any hope I had. I wasn't sure I'd survive another winter.

Thankfully I did survive that winter and so many more. I have learned that seasons change, as do we. At first strong and sturdy, weathered wooden fence rails grow brittle and crack, but they can be repaired. The relationship between my mother and me couldn’t.

I tried. She refused.

Back to the broken fence rails. To maintain the boundaries between our yard and that of our neighbors, we replace the splintered rails yearly. Sadly in my relationship with mother, there were no boundaries to honor. I endeavored to repair the relationship between us by placing what I felt were healthy perimeters to develop then maintain a healthier kinship. But she was unlike the changing seasons; she was the frigid winter winds all year round. There were no split rail fences between us. She was a barren land that saw no sun while I was a free and shining spirit needing my wings to spread so I could fly freely. Finally, I began to realize; she was devoid of love and understanding. I could not crack through the thick ice of her soul. I no longer cared to do that. I no longer cared.

My favorite season is here, as am I.