Does anyone really have the kinds of memories we read about in books? The ones where every tiny detail is fixed in our minds; like the color of the carpet on the floor, that weird shaped hole left behind the wallpaper that has peeled off or the taste and texture of a meal eaten years ago. (Can people really remember the taste of meals eaten a decade earlier? I’m not sure.) Old Bert next door swears that he could still remember the feeling of having a knife go through his abdomen, even though he’d been stabbed at least twenty-five years ago. I think it might all be a big lie.
Because I don’t remember you anymore. Your face has slowly faded into a blur. Where I could once tell the exact pattern of the freckles on your nose, now I struggle to remember the color of your eyes. The music of your lullaby has faded, leaving behind just empty lyrics.
I see red when the girls at school throwing tantrums at their mom or bitch about them in class. Why do they get to keep their moms even when they don’t seem to want her? I miss you. I want you back mom, so why do I have to be the only person without one?
It makes me angry that Dad found someone else to replace you. Although she is very sweet and kind, I’m livid. She’s better than I deserve and move loving than you ever were. I hate that.
I hate that I’ve got nothing to hold against her. I hate that the rational part of me knows I’m the one whose at fault. I hate that I can’t blame her for anything other than being a responsible adult. I hate that I almost called her ‘mom’ today and her face brightened as if I had won the Olympics. Above all, I hate that I can’t remember you ever smiling like that.
Oh, why did you leave me like this, Ma?
Wow, that’s a lot of anger and hatred in one person right? Just know, this was written a long time ago and it’s just a character. It’s not me. I don’t need therapy. Still, thanks for being concerned. That’s very sweet of you. You are a good cookie. 😛