I hear a single choked sob.
Everything inside me freezes but I get up. I know the sound. I move slowly from my room, fear holding me
tight and unraveling me all at once. I
am usually only this afraid in dreams. I
know this is not a dream. It’s too
clear. I wander to the living room; the
walk is 15 feet. It takes me what feels
like an entire day. I turn the corner
from the hall and I see her. She is
sitting in a chair across the room, the one by the window but it is dark. The blinds are all closed. They’re always closed. She sits normally but her face is contorted
in a mask.
It’s an awful mask. Involuntarily
I start to cry.
“Mom.”
I don’t understand why I’m crying. I’m not hurt.
I wonder if all children cry when their mothers cry. I think they must because it’s like the world
touches you where you didn’t think it could.
It was as if being tucked and secured inside this house, the one with no
windows open and all the blinds shut, couldn’t protect me from rain falling and
trickling through the tiles and wood, and dripping mercilessly on my
shoulder. Houses are supposed to protect
you from storms.
I move a little towards her. I don’t know why she’s crying. I don’t understand. The mask deepens and she’s sobbing again,
great deep sobs that rack her shoulders. It’s so loud.
I move closer. I’m standing in
front of her but she doesn’t see me. Her
mouth is open. Nothing comes out. It’s a wrenching silence. I hug her from the side awkwardly because I’m
so small and she’s sitting in the chair.
She doesn’t touch me. I love her
but I know that it’s not enough. That knowing makes me too
scared to move.
