I'll tell you a fable.
Once upon a time, there was a young girl, a pirate by trade,
a poet by nature. Her mother, a musician by trade, a schizophrenic by
nature, threw the young girl out of the house when the girl was fifteen
years old. The girl lived on the streets for a couple of years and was
cared for by an unruly assortment of thieves, artists and loonies. It
was, after all, 1968, and the girl had landed in San Francisco. After
much bally-hoo, the girl pirate wrangled her way into a music conservatory
where she studied violin and other oddities. She didn't see her mother
for many years. Eventually, she had a son, and when the son came of
age, the girl's mother decided she wanted to be Grandmere. This, of
course, was not to happen, since it was obvious that Grandmere was not
good with children.
Time passed, as it does in fables.
The girl's mother grew old and was punished for her wickedness
by having skins grow over her eyes. The mother called the girl, begged
her to come home, to be by the mother's side during her surgery. The
girl, curious now, and wanting to get some of her stuff, complied. She
was sent to sleep in her childhood bed and when she swung her legs under
the covers her toes touched the body of a tiny field mouse, no bigger
than the girl's thumb. The mouse was dead, so the girl carried it outside
and buried it under a rosebush.
p.s. The girl and her son lived happily ever after. The grandmother
is still schizophrenic.