Every week, it's like this for me on Friday night.

I resent, I'm angry.

All the exuberance of the week, the continuing untangling, the ideas, the inching forward...

Then tomorrow, my mother.

Her neediness, her anxiety trumping any feeling of mine, any optimism

Her persitent questions, stifling the interest from anything I'm saying.

The deep midnight-black hole of her self pity.

I try not to write about it now.

But week after week, it's there, there.