Thursday, March 28, 2013

Oh, Persephone. You are soooo grounded when you get home.

And now for something completely different. Spring is nowhere in sight here in the Ohio River Valley, and I was thinking about my favorite Greek myth and how the goddess Demeter is probably really, really pissed for winter to hang on this long. So I put myself in her shoes.

My teenage daughter is going to be the death of me.

Not literally. We gods and goddesses aren't so easy to kill. Just ask Percy Jackson. But that girl of mine is going to put some serious gray in my immortal hair.

And when I suffer, others suffer. You don't like me when I'm angry. And I am well and thoroughly incensed at the moment. Enjoy your March thundersnow, American Midwest.

Persephone is taking her sweet time heading north from the underworld this year. Every young woman likes a bad boy, and likes to torture her mother, and this winter my little darling seems to really enjoy the god of death's company and the absolute Hades that fact is putting me through.

Why she can't just fall for a guy like Daryl Dixon from The Walking Dead I don't know. Now there's a bad boy you can bring home to mama. (What? You didn't think Mount Olympus could get satellite? Please.)

Her father's been no help. Huge shocker, that. He's having a little mid-epoch crisis and spending all his time hanging out in Irish pubs with Dionysus and his little nymph on the side, who bears a striking resemblance to that girl in the Transformers movie. Not that Zeus has ever had much to do with the care and feeding of his daughters. And he certainly doesn't ever side with me against his brother. Brothers before...well, you know.

It also doesn't help that the lord of the underworld is in the habit of giving himself an extreme makeover each winter and fashioning his appearance after whoever the male flavor-of-the-week is. This year I heard he bears a striking resemblance to Channing Tatum.

Channing Tatum. I can't compete with that.

I put a text in to Persephone to remind her it was time to get her boots on and hike up this way nearly a month ago. It took her forever to get back to me (and I know she got the message, because they get excellent AT&T coverage there) and when she did, she was very vague and put out.

Whatevs. I'm fine! Chillax. Be home in a bit. Bye love ya see ya

If that kid comes back with any piercings or tattoos, I swear...let's just say it has snowed in May before. It's been a while, but I wouldn't put it past me.

She only ate three seeds. Three! Her contract with Hades for this year is up. She's fulfilled the deal. At this point, she's hanging out down there because she wants to. Because it suits her and this dark, rebellious, gothy thing she's going through. Angst is cool. And no where is it more angsty than hell.

I know she will come home eventually. And I will be so happy to see her I will welcome her with open arms, even if she is wearing too much black eyeliner. Sure, she'll be grounded for a while. And she will hate me for it. But the lure of blooming flowers and ripening fruit and warm breezes will be too much, and for a few precious months, she will be mine again. Our annual cycle of loss, of reunion, of forgiveness, a ritual as old as time itself, will come. My heart swells with joy at the hope of it.

For I, above all others, know that summer's delights are short and bittersweet.

She will leave me again. She always does. She always has to.

But she also always comes home. And this makes me most blessed among mothers.

So if you see my daughter, please tell her kindly to get her ass on the road. Thank you.

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