My mother collects my conformities like tokens.

She puts them in her purse to tell her friends about later.

Things like how I finally got a real boyfriend,

or that I bought a pair of dress pants from a real store.


I used to wish she cared more about my non-conformities,

could take pride in my ability to shop

like the queen of second hand clothing

and my ability to be so independent, taking apart the pipes under the bathroom sink alone.


But then I am just happy we are getting along.




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