her feel something, like when she was really alive. Not just caught between the here and the nether.
Sometimes, I thought she’d bow over me with all her love and hurt and history and swallow me whole. Like that big fish that swallowed Jonah. Like the mama dog who swallowed her pups.
I’d return to Mama’s womb, and in there I’d meet God. He’d define a certain penance, like waiting three days in Mama’s belly, or walking the stations of the cross, or reciting the Rosary and paying five bucks to the till, like some of the farmhands who have lived in Cabin Three. I figured it would depend on God’s denomination. Either way, I’d agree to pay. Then I’d suck up all her tiny bits and pieces with one big breath and make her whole again.
Other times, I’d imagine Mama breathing harder and harder until she gasped and turned blue. The broken pieces of her would scatter, like little stars, spread out across the blackest night. They’d shine out over all the places I’d read about. Places like Tibet and Jerusalem. They’d shine from the edge of the Nile across the Great Wall of China, down the Ganges and back to the Mississippi hills. And there, they’d shine down on Mama and me, just out of reach, as if to say, You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!
But from as far back as I can remember, spring has brought me hope. It’s partly on account of the crocuses, so bright and yellow they sting my eyes. Then forsythias and tulips. Soon the jasmine, honeysuckle, and all things sweet and golden, warm and wild.
The whole world is shiny in the spring—as if those taunting stars have fallen to the ground. As a child, I’d gather those yellow flowers up in little batches and bring them back to Mama. All those scattered bits and pieces held together with my tiny fingers, ready for the kitchen window. They’d rest in milk bottles lined across the sill, until one by one, they’d give themselves over to Mama. They’d wither and wilt and collapse. And with each one’s death, Mama would grow a little stronger. Or so I believed.
I believed it with all my heart. The same way I believed in miracles and magic. I spent every spare minute scouring the countryside in search of yellow blooms. Wild ones, groomed ones, planted ones, potted ones. I gathered so much echinacea and goldenrod one season that Mama started to sneeze and cough, keeping Jack awake at night. So he threw them out and threatened me, “Stop bringing weeds into this house or I’ll throw you out too!” His square jaw stretched to show a long, jagged scar below his chin. His temples bulged with rage.
Later, when Jack had left, Mama held my cheeks in her hands and said, “You’re such a sweet, sweet girl bringing me flowers.” Then she sat with me in the backyard and made me a tiara of clover blooms. She crowned me under the shade of a pecan tree and called me her princess.
That’s the other thing I believe without a doubt. That Mama loves me. Always. Not just in spring, when things are golden and bright, and the stars fall to her feet, but all year round. Even when the heavens tease her. I knew it then, as I know it now. Mama loves me even as she is falling apart.
Later in the evening, I sit near Mama as she closes her eyes in bed. I wait for her to pray herself to sleep. I kiss her good night.
“Medicine,” she whispers.
I know better than to argue.
I find Mama’s stash. Bottles and needles tucked in the back of her dresser drawer. She’s taught me how to fill the syringe. I draw the liquid in from a dark brown bottle, like a straw, tapping to release the bubble before injecting it under her breasts. This way, no one sees the marks. This isn’t medicine, as Mama wants me to believe. I’ve watched enough to notice how her moods change when the farmhands visit. How they always leave a paper sack with liquids or pills. Morpheus. That’s what they call it. The god of sleep.
The house is quiet because Jack has not come home. When Mama’s
Sometimes, I thought she’d bow over me with all her love and hurt and history and swallow me whole. Like that big fish that swallowed Jonah. Like the mama dog who swallowed her pups.
I’d return to Mama’s womb, and in there I’d meet God. He’d define a certain penance, like waiting three days in Mama’s belly, or walking the stations of the cross, or reciting the Rosary and paying five bucks to the till, like some of the farmhands who have lived in Cabin Three. I figured it would depend on God’s denomination. Either way, I’d agree to pay. Then I’d suck up all her tiny bits and pieces with one big breath and make her whole again.
Other times, I’d imagine Mama breathing harder and harder until she gasped and turned blue. The broken pieces of her would scatter, like little stars, spread out across the blackest night. They’d shine out over all the places I’d read about. Places like Tibet and Jerusalem. They’d shine from the edge of the Nile across the Great Wall of China, down the Ganges and back to the Mississippi hills. And there, they’d shine down on Mama and me, just out of reach, as if to say, You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!
But from as far back as I can remember, spring has brought me hope. It’s partly on account of the crocuses, so bright and yellow they sting my eyes. Then forsythias and tulips. Soon the jasmine, honeysuckle, and all things sweet and golden, warm and wild.
The whole world is shiny in the spring—as if those taunting stars have fallen to the ground. As a child, I’d gather those yellow flowers up in little batches and bring them back to Mama. All those scattered bits and pieces held together with my tiny fingers, ready for the kitchen window. They’d rest in milk bottles lined across the sill, until one by one, they’d give themselves over to Mama. They’d wither and wilt and collapse. And with each one’s death, Mama would grow a little stronger. Or so I believed.
I believed it with all my heart. The same way I believed in miracles and magic. I spent every spare minute scouring the countryside in search of yellow blooms. Wild ones, groomed ones, planted ones, potted ones. I gathered so much echinacea and goldenrod one season that Mama started to sneeze and cough, keeping Jack awake at night. So he threw them out and threatened me, “Stop bringing weeds into this house or I’ll throw you out too!” His square jaw stretched to show a long, jagged scar below his chin. His temples bulged with rage.
Later, when Jack had left, Mama held my cheeks in her hands and said, “You’re such a sweet, sweet girl bringing me flowers.” Then she sat with me in the backyard and made me a tiara of clover blooms. She crowned me under the shade of a pecan tree and called me her princess.
That’s the other thing I believe without a doubt. That Mama loves me. Always. Not just in spring, when things are golden and bright, and the stars fall to her feet, but all year round. Even when the heavens tease her. I knew it then, as I know it now. Mama loves me even as she is falling apart.
Later in the evening, I sit near Mama as she closes her eyes in bed. I wait for her to pray herself to sleep. I kiss her good night.
“Medicine,” she whispers.
I know better than to argue.
I find Mama’s stash. Bottles and needles tucked in the back of her dresser drawer. She’s taught me how to fill the syringe. I draw the liquid in from a dark brown bottle, like a straw, tapping to release the bubble before injecting it under her breasts. This way, no one sees the marks. This isn’t medicine, as Mama wants me to believe. I’ve watched enough to notice how her moods change when the farmhands visit. How they always leave a paper sack with liquids or pills. Morpheus. That’s what they call it. The god of sleep.
The house is quiet because Jack has not come home. When Mama’s
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