no. 1
we are healed from the suffering only by experiencing it to the full -marcel proust
“I bought him a new plaque…” my voice faltered, “I couldn’t afford anything else.”
She cooed, “thanks, baby. That’s so sweet of you,” and continued the haphazard chop, chop, chopping of the florescent orange carrots.
I frowned, my eyes scrutinizing her movements, searching for a sign of hesitance with every smooth rise of her hand—a hint of exasperation with every slam of the knife against the cutting board.
Nothing.
My eyes drew up, searching her face for a splinter of emotion. Her brows were furrowed, focused, and thin strands of amber hair fell over her eyes. She looked the same as she did when I was a child—beautiful, natural—but now, her soft brown eyes were accompanied by the fine wrinkles of time. Her skin was freckled from the sun, lips in a perpetual frown—the same details I’ve known all my life, ripened with age. I hadn’t paid much attention to these changes—she’d always been the same to me. She was always who I aspired to be. I longed for her slight stature, her undying charm. To be as beautiful as her when she was draped over the couch, pouring over her newest novel. I thought to myself: when I grow up, I’ll be just like mom.
When I grow up, I will light up a room just by walking in. To be like her—effortlessly beautiful. In my eyes, my mother was an ethereal being, above all that presided over the earth. She could do no wrong—make no missteps. She was adored, and never once let herself be silenced.
Of course, as a child I never was one for realities.
Looking at her now, I could only see a frail woman, unable to distinguish fantasy from reality. She built her perfect life: two children, a husband, accompanied by adoring dogs and a quaint home.
She manifested her nirvana, but not without sacrifice. It didn’t take much, just some trimmings here and there: one child, two—and a few soul mates along the way.
“Finally,” she would cry at the end, “finally—I have my happy ending.” And she would set down her books, leave them sitting the in the dusty old corner, pages worn and thin from all the words she peeled from the pages and took to heart.
chop, chop, chop.
Not a single break in composure.
chop, chop, chop.
I stared hard, willing her to meet my eyes.
chop, chop, ch—
“Mom,” her hand stood still. “I think that’s enough carrots,” I whispered.
She looked up, unblinking, and set down the knife. “You’re probably right,” pushing the mound of carrot rounds into the pot of boiling water on the stove.
Her gaze fell on my nose, studying the freckles—avoiding my eyes.
“Mom,” I hesitated, “why—why don’t you visit him? It’s been years.”
“Oh, no time. No time,” she mumbled dismissively. Chewing on her lip with furrowed brows, she turned back to the stove. The click, click, click of the stove and the clattering of utensils filled the silence.
I didn’t get her petite physique, her charm, or her grace. My genetic code was not comprised of her witticisms, her unique ability to make people fall in love. I inherited little but her mannerisms, the traits I learned from observing her as a child—furrowed brows and masticated lips.
“No time?” I seethed. “He’s your son and no one bothers to visit him but me.”
“I don’t need a lecture from you. You’re a child,” she scraped pieces of celery across the wooden board with her knife, the sound making me tense as the gentle plops sounded with each piece that fell into the broth.
“I’m not a child. You can’t call me that anymore.”
“And why not?” Her tone chastised.
“Because you haven’t been my mom in years,” my voice raised an octave, cracked. I said what I had said to hurt her—and as each word left my lips I felt confidence blooming in my chest.
She spun on her heels. Finally, her composure faltered.
She looked at me hard, “how dare you say that?” A slender hand on her hip, “Apologize. Now.”
I was fuming, so angry I thought I might combust. Instead, I just sat there, challenging her with my eyes.
“Now,” she repeated.
“Face it, mom. You replaced him—you replaced me—and now you have your new family and you don’t need to remember us anymore.” I wish I could say her eyes softened, that they shone with tears and realization. I wish I could say her face contorted with remembrance: the many moments where it was just us, best friends.
Instead, motionless, she offered a simple, “that’s not true.”
Woven in those words were the answers to every question left unasked. I no longer held a place in her life. I was simply a placeholder for the people she desired, the characters in her novels that she had not quite found yet. Through careful fabrication she constructed her picturesque world and in one fail swoop she brushed away all that did not fit this image. A dead son and an estranged daughter—the black spots on her pearl canvas—we could not stay.
I am no longer the daughter she would rave about—earning her gold stars for doing nothing but bearing me. I am no longer her prized star girl, who would bring about rounds of praise.
I am her daughter—the one she doesn’t speak about. I am a thing of intrigue, but little more, when a stranger asks my name. I am, “Oh, this is my eldest. She lives with her father.” A simple accessory as we walk down the street on each short visit.
“I’m glad you don’t visit him,” I said finally. “He should never have to know what it’s like to be forgotten.”
I dropped my feet the cold tile beneath me, and with a sigh I turned my back to leave. She did not call after me. She did not utter profound revelations of regret for the chasm that she created between us. It widened, deepened, blackened, until the only sound that followed me out of the room was the chop, chop, chop of the knife against the cutting board.
somesubparwriting 