Mama's Secret

Soft steps are heard in the garden, gingerly I hide. Looking from the bush, I see my mother. My love. Oh, how she is so sad. My initial motive to scare her is no use now as I emerge to make my presence known, "Mom, what is wrong?" I ask, stopping the innocent game.

With a light glisten on her cheeks, she stares blankly before biting her lips. She knows her time is coming. I know her time is coming. We both know, but yet, is it selfish for me not to want her to go?

"It's quite alright," she brushes my cheek with her bony hand before dropping it with a smile. Who does she think she can fool? I am aware of the ease she is attempting to push, but the pretense that nothing is wrong is as weak as bubbles fated to dissipate. I nod my head, respecting her silent cry to not push it, despite how much I want to.

I exalt my mother, and her ethereal, dream-walker essence. She creates life from her flowery womb, knowing the spirits and names of each creature; even creatures she remembers not. My dreamwalker and I are on the destructive front lines, her pretending not to be affected by the grime in her face. Yearning to remove it, she stops my hand, and turns my head to the path she has made for me. This has always happened. Since I was a child, her beauty got underestimated and she subjected herself to disrespect. Unknowingly teaching me that this was normal.

I pity my mother, and hate her calm disposition in the face of evil. She demonstrates strength that not even I can master. But her temperament is renamed her enemy. And at the same time, it is mine. It is just us two in this lush manor, me begging to fix reality that can twist when it sees fit. My mother gets angry; I know she does, but she dares not to show it. I found out her emotions by the rocks of her chair. Controlled, if content, or lack thereof. Erratic, if the opposite. Her rocking chair, along with me, are her favorite things in the world. But let's be honest, what kind of mother wouldn't cherish her own?

The chair that sits in a secluded corner of the garden, and is separated by a flowery maze. I could never do the maze, and she knows that, hence the flowers, but I wish to be with her. Maybe it is a good truth not to gain access to her corner. Even mother needs her space. I appreciate the little things she tends to, frequently putting my needs over hers. She makes me feel special; which highlights my own flaw.

Just yesterday, I found out that she hates me.

I don't know how to comprehend that fact, seeing her face monstrously contort into an anger I haven't seen before. Perhaps, this is the anger she harbors. It must be. Through yells and screams, she hits me with the question I forever run from, "Where are you when the pain happens?"

Where are you?

Where are you?

W h e re

ar e y o u

l o v e?

How dare she question my love? How dare she cause this close? She knows that I can't breathe; that I panic easily. She is waiting for the answer, not caring for the blue. She crosses her arms, and I know it is true. MY MOM WANTS THE ANSWER.

I close my eyes, and am approached by a scale: betray humanity or submit to the ideals. I reach out for the preferable choice, mistakenly choosing the latter, "I knew it," she simply says, "Don't look at me at the moment." I watched her retreating back, hurt by the dismissal.

"Mother!" I cry out, and with a turn, her ghost remains in my mind. How can I come back from this? I don't like the dark.

I glance at the hedge, picturing her rocking chair. Would she be there now, or did I miss her? Closing my eyes usually helps me picture things, but it seems impossible now. It's as if the cord that kept us together severed.

Suddenly, the garden turns dark, and the leaves shrivel into a brown color. I hear no more birds, and in the distance, I see a fire. I stand there and stare, wishing for it to go away. The fire grows, and I want it to die down. No matter how much I yell, it won't. And I feel helpless. I miss my mother.

Where is she now?

I miss her kind smile, and the way her nose scrunches when she laughs. I miss her long silver hair that is louder than her steps. And most importantly, I miss her chair. I miss the patched cross circle among the many stitched lotus covering the seat. I miss hearing the creaks that reassured me of her presence. I miss her altogether; my head longing for her lips. I long for her calming kiss. But what do I need calming for when I, myself, am the culprit?

Accountability was never easy for me. I always assumed the best, albeit being dishonest to the evidence seen. I would never hurt my mother, but it seems like I have. No matter how I try to fix myself, a new issue emerges. With every fire. With every loiter. With every wisp, the manor is destroyed faster than one can say "drip, drip." I sincerely want to say sorry on the race's behalf, and get her love back. But do I know what I am even apologizing for?

I face the hedge again, and before thoughts click together in my mind, my feet are moving. I shouldn't walk there. It's my mothers secret! I purposely trip myself, stopping the force from pulling me into the maze. I am aware of my limits; mother reminds me well. I see the chair, lone and rocking. But no one is in it, and I stop.

"Mother?" I peer.

It is not her, but… me.

I am in the chair, looking around helplessly. I quickly reach to pull myself out of the chair. The instant touch is like a wave crashing into me, and I look back at myself. My doppelganger carefully stands, placing her hands on my shoulders, moving towards my face. She is going in for a kiss, and as much as I don't want to, I felt pulled. My mouth meets hers, and it is nice but airy. When I open my eyes, she is gone, and Mother stares at me from the chair.

She looks terrible, the wood of the chair reflecting her now state. I was relieved that she came back, but what was that smell? Upon further investigation, I found it. The chair is rotting, and so is she.

"My time has now come, look what you did to me!" She seems angry, which I am not used to.

"I did not do this," I plead, but I know the sad truth.

I am the unrecognizable creature, the one unworthy of her love. I loiter endlessly, mixing it up with innocent games, and contribute to her damnation.

"Mother, I," a finger presses against my lips.

"Shh, I know you did not mean to. It's just…" her words trail off and out from behind her she holds a sick baby fox with a bony hand, "I can't get them back… Do you even care for me?"

My eyes shift at the surroundings; the fire grows by the minute, "Of course!" I exclaim, wanting to save her. Like there were eyes in the back of her head, she turned to the fire, holding the same amount of grace in her gait. She reaches out a hand and watches it get engulfed by the flame. She lets go of the fox and enters the second hand, almost pushing the flame down.

I marvel at my mother, crunching the dead earth beneath me, waiting for that smile that says, "It is okay." But, I never get it. Guilt pangs my chest once she finishes, I just want to hug her. But this can't be fixed with a hug, the damage has only started.

I watch the days pass with her, pollution emerging left and right. She is no more being calm, but is defining her fight. I am the enemy on the other side, eliciting her plight. But at the same time, kissing my place in her heart goodbye. The chair is now thin, on the brink of falling apart. I suppose the state reflects her now. The world. The future.

No matter how much love I pour onto her,

M o t h er

n ev er forgets

The earth remembers what we forget. And I forgot that my mother, my sweet mother, is human too. And her pretense was a way of making up for my own negligence.

The chair remains to rock, and the familiar creak returns. But Mother is not what I remember now. She is not the same.

I am not the same.

We can never be the same, as long as the race persists.

'I have created you to be rulers of the birds and crawlers of the Earth.' or whatever He said. I am not sure if the entitlement to be a ruler is ethical. Is it worth the cost of another life? Is it worth the cost of Mother? I concern for her wellbeing. I really do. But her wellbeing is placed under a red veil. A veil that highlights my own, and tells me of my own importance.

She remembers us; remembers her Mission to nurture us. Our test was to acknowledge it; but we failed. And what is left, is her being the infant of the Most High, accepting what she deserves with no condition. He gives her back her chair, stroking her silver locks, making them blue again.

'You are Mine,' He says, 'and I am yours.'