“My Mother is an Orange Rind”

    Tom, twenty-four, an artist, struggles with his relationship with his fifty-two year old mom. Tom turns to her for comfort, inevitably feeling disappointed. “She is an orange rind,” he says. “What do you mean?” I ask. “She is very tough. I can never get to the soft parts.” Tom says with overwhelming sadness. “That really hurts you. You so wish that you could have a more tender relationship with her.” I say, repeating his idea. “Yes,” Tom cries, “I have given up.” “Not quite,” I say. “It seems like you still wish for a mother you do not have,” I reply. “Yes, but I know her, and I know she is not capable of understanding my emotions,” Tom says. “Yes, but each time you feel the need you turn to her and then you are disappointed,” I say. “Yes, but I am less disappointed each time because I am learning what to expect,” Tom says in a way which changes his tone from sadness to resignation. “An orange rind,” I repeat. “That is an interesting way of putting it.” Tom’s creative abilities percolate through his pain. He gave me an image which helped me understand his experience. I hope he experiences me as the inside of that orange. I should  ask him about that.