Mother

Cold eyes turn on me. I know they are capable of warmth, but it is a warmth that excludes me, one I shall never feel. Those cold eyes watch me, always watching. Those eyes are like daggers, they pierce and tear at my heart. I am ill with the feeling, truly sick. I wonder how long I can last before I crack, my calm and collected façade falling about my feet.

I used to think of you as invincible, a hero. I think all children do, at first. Now, looking at you, I see only the form of a poor, tired, old women in need of rest. You are so fragile I am afraid to even look at you, to say a mere ‘hello’. Why? Because you have that uncanny ability to twist and mangle everything we say, to form it around yourself, like a barrier, proclaiming you as the victim, and us as the abusers.

Cold hands reach out to touch me, to stroke and calm me as I shake morosely. You say sweet things, the things a mother should say, the things I rarely hear. I know you are only saying them now because you feel it is your duty to, because you have fooled yourself into thinking that is what you always say. You don’t, you never do. You say ‘be strong’. I am always strong, it is you who is weak. You say so all the time, and now, here we are again, you contradicting yourself and me too sick to say a thing.

I think that, perhaps if I really had died, you would have thought a little better of me. You would say more of those sweet, motherly things over my grave, and smile with your eyes betraying a hint of the warmth I have always longed for. Alas, that is not what would have happened, is it? No, losing me would have just given you one more excuse to wallow in self-pity and force others to pity at your side. You would not be mourning for me, but for yourself, your own loss. And yet, here we are, I am still alive, and you are still alive, and you are still mourning and I am still dieing.

Again, you compliment me on my bravery, my ability to handle situations so calmly and fearlessly. What am I supposed to say to that, I wonder? ‘Mother, I have no choice. One of us has to support the children. One of us has to set a good example. Mother, go rest. Mother, I’ll take care of it. Mother, I’m the strong one, right? You are weak, so go mourn at my grave.’. Is that what I am expected to say, smiling sweetly and without resentment. What is a child to say when it is them and not the parent who is the ‘brave’ one, the ‘calm;’ one. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?! Nothing! I can’t say anything! Why?! Because doing so would kill you. Because you are weak and I am strong. Because I can handle this, even if you can’t.

‘Tell me you love me’ you say, smiling that smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. Telling me to say such a thing defeats the purpose. I’ve told you that before, and, like I should have known you would, you twist and mangle that one little statement. You turn me against you, and I don’t have to do a thing but listen to you rant. This time I am smarter, this time I have already learned my lesson. This time I say ‘I love you’ and hug you, then walk away. That makes you happy, of course it does. Because you are weak, and weak people have to be told those things on a regular basis, they have to constantly reaffirm them. That’s okay, I have decided. I can handle that, even if you can’t. I know that actions speak louder than words. I know I love you, even if you do not love me.

I am strong, and so, even if I am dieing, I will do whatever it takes to keep you happy.

You are weak, so go lay down.

I am calm, so I will talk to your son.

You are weak, so go call your mother.

I am your daughter, so I love you.

You are my mother, so why don’t you love me?

Dear Mother,

I love you. Goodbye.