When a Lullaby Isn't Enough

Mother—why did you not hold me close when I cried at night? I held out my tiny fingers to grasp you, to try and keep you near me, but you never reached out to me at all. Sometimes I wonder if you were just sitting in the other room, eyes widen open, as my nightmares swirled with a sleepless fugue of being.

Mother—why did you never once sing me a lullaby? Where was the soothing voice that was meant to calm my every ill? You would look at me with tired eyes, impatience growing, in those hours when I begged you to stay beside me. Your voice scraped against my psyche when you spoke, as if you were blaming me, but I didn't know what I had done wrong. Maybe some days my existence felt more like a burden than a blessing.

Mother—why did you relish my every fright? I remember you laughing, as if you were in a hysterical fit, while my anxieties ate at my insides as if worms were trying to break through my skin. I still think of you and your odd humors—as if I can ever forget the days when I felt more afraid of you than any monster that could ever creep out of my closet.

Mother—why did you punish me when you were sick? Your screams tore at me, restless villains of the spoken word, and I cowered from them as if they were beasts nipping at me with fangs dripping blood. Love did not seem a thing you knew or believed in. Soon I didn't see you as the hero or the victim but something lesser, something more foul, something that still haunts the closed doors of every bad dream.

Mother—why were you the one I loved best but hated most? You stood in the forefront, and I always stayed in the coldness of your shadow. I tried to tell myself your smiles were warm and your laughter bright—but you were never like sunshine. You were a desolate meadow, hidden away in the forest's depths, and no one could see your greenery without traversing through the woods' obstacles.

Mother—please, Mother, why are you the ghost that still lingers behind every word? I tried my best. I didn't mean for you to die the way you did. Mother, I would have saved you, but I was as weak as the day I was born. I had no strong arms to hold you or lift you up. All I ever wanted was to be your child, but now I don't know how to forgive myself for not being your champion through every ill.

Mother—why did you leave me? I wanted to be a good girl for you. Every moment of my life, I took to my tasks because I wanted you to be proud. No one blamed me when you passed, but I still blame myself. If I could have done this, if I could have said that, then maybe—maybe—maybe things might have been different.

Mother—why can't I let you go? Years pass, and still I grow cold at the mention of your name. They say I did the best I could. I don't believe it. Maybe someday I will be able to look at your picture without guilt. Maybe one day I will look into my eyes, the same eyes that mirrored yours, and see some acceptance in the earth of them. You are ashes, Mother, but when I look up—well, I can still envision you standing there, like there's a cracked-open door through which you are peering at me, and I wonder if I will ever know a night's sleep when you don't trail after my footsteps in the realm of a dream's passing guise.