A Mother's Love

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
Often looked at my mother as a woman of wealth despite the fact she has little money. Because she has a lot of heart.

This is for mother's day.

Submitted: March 29, 2014

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Submitted: March 29, 2014

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Cold ground scuds the soles of bare feet.

Early sunlight breaking the curtains gloom over a barren bedroom of which I resided.

I was home.

Loved and well kept.

It was no palace of silk and gold.

The walls were not well plastered and the heat of the fair town had long since peeled corners of dull wallpaper from their strong walls.

Flowers painted on the skirt boards were aged and faded.

But even though each step down the creaking staircase was bound to be worth a broken leg at some point, it was my kingdom.

My place of sweet haven.

Because this was my Mother's home.

My place of upbringing.

 

"You're up early... Usually dead til dawn... Jus' like yer father."

 

As always, she was there, in the kitchen. 

In her now bust wicker chair that was made especially for her years ago by Pops.

Staring aimlessly out of the wooden framed window there with a cigarette in one hand and her face in the other. 

Carefully balanced on the windowsill was her cracked cup of coffee.

It reminded me of her features as she shakily brought it to her thin lips; worn with deep wrinkles yet strong as ever.

Pops left when I was only young, y'see.

 

"Business, Ma. Important as is the case."

"Well, you're eatin' before you leave me. And yer not havin' a smoke, I can tell'ya that much..."

 

Never was discrete enough.

I pull the packet out of my jeans pocket and put it beside her on the sill.

She still remains looking out of the window, coating her lungs with the smoke I yearn to have myself.

 

"Bad fer yer soul... Sit, Darwin..."

 

To go against your Mother's wishes is like telling the Devil the deal's off...

So I pull up a seat from the dining table and sit aside her.

She slats a plate of cold toast onto my lap.

...Clock's slow today...

 

"Thank you, Ma."

 

She's wearing Pa's shirt like she always does. 

I can still smell him beneath the mask of cigarette's and weak perfume. 

She finishes her coffee in one final swig.

The cigarette's next.

Snubbed out in the palm of her hand before she flicks the remains out the window, rubs the ash with her fingertips.

Chews her cheeks on the inside and looks harder to the sky.

Eyes become narrow from thought.

She takes my hand after I place the toast on the ground.

 

"Ma?"

 

Nothing is said.

Yet I feel she wants to.

Bony fingers squeeze at my own.

The shirt she wears is two sizes too big and hides most of her hand.

But the ring gleams like if it were new.

Still she won't look at me.

 

"He'll come back, won't he, Son? He loves us with all he's got in him. He Jus' lost is all."

 

Dryness takes to the boulder now lodged in my throat.

I can't breathe for a second.

Yet I'm calm and still and loosely kept.

The woman squeezes my hand as if to reassure herself I'm still there.

 

"I love you, Ma..."

 

So hard to tell your loved one the truth when denial is all they keep at.

Strange ways some people have to cope with grief.

She knows what I was going to say so I didn't say it.

Something of a hopeful smile quivered on her drawn face.

 

"...He jus' lost is all..."


© Copyright 2018 Darwin Lowens. All rights reserved.

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