the mourning after

Of all people - my boss - was telling me earlier that if I'm serious about writing, I would commit myself to half an hour a day of creativity. Inside I laughed, thinking of the 4-word challenge that I used to complete during work time... but then he specified such writing was to be done at home.

This is something started on my blog - finished - and rejected by a small press anthology whose editors I like... so bear no grudge. Since my wikipedia plan didn't last either - hopefully random stories will make me write again...

...

I wouldn’t say that I hated her. Well, most days. Sometimes I’d get up in the morning and be pleased to hear about how she was going to spend her day. Some days I’d arrive home and be angered by whatever she had to say. It’s not that I envied her days of leadlight classes and shopping with friends, I knew all too well that she had worked hard for most of her life. It was just that she showed no compassion for the itch in my throat or the smashed heart in my chest. No compassion for the calluses that appeared on my feet, from high-heeled office work.
‘What are you going to do – never work a day in your life?’
‘All I said was that my feet hurt.’
‘Mine hurt for years.’
‘I’m not saying they didn’t. All I’m saying…’ But it was of no use. Everything I said was taken as a stab about her not being enough or having done enough.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I’d say, heading out of the kitchen.
‘Are you just going to leave your keys on the bench?’
That was my mother, the lady to whom I was never enough.

Growing up in a family with three kids there is a lot of chance to hide things. When you broke something you’d disappear. Let one of the others find it, be associated to it and therefore be blamed for it. When there was one chocolate biscuit, the same logic applied. Sarah, my youngest sister, was blamed the most. She was too fragile, too small to do anything but cry once accused. Her lack of denial or refute, in my mothers eyes, only proved her guilt. Sarah would lay awake at night, watching me, her thumb in her mouth, not even sure that it wasn’t her. When Daniel figured out the same means to avoid trouble, she was culled and emptied, and never stood a chance again. Her standard response to everything became I don’t know or I’m not sure. On the day that Matt proposed to her, she hesitated for too long. He decided she didn’t love him enough.

Daniel was like my dad, people said. Good on the field, good with the women, good in here – they’d say as they banged on their chests. He was tall and handsome and someone I could always count on to lend me money when I’d lost mine (or already spent it). He was home late and up early and would open every drawer in the bathroom, every morning just out of habit. He would slam them closed and spend too long in the shower. He would sing while he made breakfast and scoff when we asked questions, but would always make a cake on our birthdays. Left in the fridge, second shelf, with child-like handwriting, love dano. He would never hug or peck or high five on the staircase.

My dad started drinking when he died. He’d come home from work and kiss my mother on the cheek, pat the dog and disappear. Before Daniel died he’d said more, laughed more, felt more. But every day became the same without his boy. He would watch Sarah and I from across the dinner table but never ask. Never yell. Never tire of our stories. My mother stopped work. Took up classes. Bought a yoga mat. Sarah proposed to Matt.

And I just stayed there. Year after year after year.

And every year she would wrap the foil around the tree. She would flinch if she heard the screeching of breaks close or in the distance. She would see his face smiling, something he rarely did, she would shake bad thoughts from her mind. Not now Nola, she’d think.

And every year I would cut it down when she’d gone to yoga. I’d cut it down and hide it in my drawer. Sit silently as she’d rant and cry that some local bastard had cut it down. Some bastard child of some bastard bastard. Flabbergasted, she’d fail to make sense. She’d cry the way she had the day it had happened. Reliving the moment over and over again.

I did it hoping one year she’d accept it. That one year she’d see there was nothing wrong with mourning. That it was the only way to look towards the future, to embrace what was left.
The life she was letting rot.
That marriage.
The children that hated her.
The room.
The room that didn’t change.
The dust.
The sock on the bed.