As we drive the weekly drive, I ask her softly, longingly, hopefully, for a better schedule.
A better way to live, to help me with school, friends, home.
She looks down at me, softly, firmly astounding “no”.
I persist, but she doesn't hear me.
“It isn’t fair to me,” she says. Me, me, me.
Rarely complaining, I am utterly surprised.
Why?
Her finger poised towards me, she points.
My fault, me to blame, her perfect.
Caged in the moving car, we sit without lips moving, no sound from us.
No motion but the bevel of the wheel, the switching of the FM station.
No sound but from the radio, loud is the music to stifle the piercing silence.
Thoughts racing, I think. I think to bury the thinking of before, I must think for now.
What has happened? She’s my mother, I love her, no? No? Yes, but where to draw the line.
The line to ward off eruptions of torment and manipulation stringing from her to me.
A sad moment, yes. A horrid loss, yes. To wallow in pity, no. I must effloresce.
I placed my trust in her, I looked up to her, I found my hope in her.
Though I soon realized, the hope in her was only a reflection I saw in her eyes,
Eyes of darkness that would watch over me.
One better hope not to fall into them, they’re a trap, you see.
Her eyes pursue you,
grasp you,
claim you.
Once inside you drown, drown in deep waters
As dark as a devil’s eye.
Mothers watch over you. Laugh with you. Help you. Love you.
Mothers are supposed to.