'Mothers? Hell, they seldom say die! Fathers perhaps. Like my poor father. He just acts like I don't exist. But not mothers. They form you in that dark place inside them and you're theirs. For giving life they exact life. The cord remains uncut, the blood joined, and all that that implies. They hold you by their weakness, their whining, their sickness, their long-suffering, their tears and their money...We're all caught within a circle of women, I'm afraid, and we move from one to the next in a kind of blind dance.' His words swirled like blown sand around them, stinging her, and she wondered briefly if he had included her in that ruinous circle. She said, 'I guess your mother considers it a crime to paint.'
Brown Girl, Brownstones by Paule Marshall