Oh, Mother.
How can I say things to you without sounding like I am crying out
my words?
Oh Mother,
I cannot tell you about that night 9 years ago
When your husband found me hiding my tears in between the soft
fabric of my comfort blanket which didn’t exactly feel comfortable that night.
How do I explain to you the nasty bruised mark it left in invisible
ink around my ankle
Which I drag along with me
Every day I go, everywhere I go.
Oh, Mother.
How do I tell you that your voice now hurts my ears every time you
yell after coming home at night because it stopped hurting my feelings a long
time ago.
Oh, Mother.
How do I kiss you goodnight when I haven’t had a goodnight’s sleep
in a year and a half since that night you locked me in my room, thinking I am
asleep, and did not return till sunrise.
I lay there, mother, just waiting for your car to return to the
parking lot.
But you took my night’s sleep that night and haven’t returned it
ever since.
Oh, Mother.
How do I reminisce when my memories don’t involve a bustling house
of food and family on a lazy Sunday afternoon in the summer of 2008.
My memories are sharp and I have coloured them with the black
crayon I stole from my kindergarten teacher’s cabinet when she wasn’t looking.
Oh, Mother.
How do I tell you that you have been strong like ice and soft like
fire because it does make me proud to see how you got through it even though
you knew it would mean ending up alone.
Mother,
Can I say these things to you without making you feel guilty?
These insidious facts are less about me and more about your battle
scars.
But, mother, how do I explain that to you after all?
Too good !!
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