Mother

Mother
by Benjamin Hadden

Mother spoke. She told me about the pain she feels when her sons fight.
I asked the reasons why? But she could give none.

"They are spread far and wide," she said. "They distance themselves
from each other. They've forgotten. Same flesh and blood, same roots,
but denied."
I thought of my own family and our conflicts. I remembered the times my
brother and I fought over the armchair. The family throne. Of course
when father was home neither of us went near it. It was sacred. A thing
of fear and intrigue. Whenever I sat on it I could never feel
comfortable. But I wanted it. To sit in it and feel totally at ease. I
felt a compulsion to steal a couple of seconds once, when no one was
looking. My brother caught me and told my father. It was hard to
forgive him for that.

The punishment wasn't severe. One month grounded. There are some people
I know who get ten years, sometimes more. So I suppose I was lucky. But
we fought and fought until the time came when our mother had to
separate us. I felt like I'd been betrayed. I was sent to my
grandparents for a week. We reconciled afterwards. There are some
brothers I know who never reconcile. Sad that.

Mother told me about all the places she had given birth in. It was a
long list: Australia, Kazakhstan, Egypt, France, Canada and so on. She
had a lot of children.

" I seem to give birth every five minutes," she exaggerated. "Well,
every nine months. Although, I have had twins a number of times in my
life. They're the most difficult. They never agree on anything."

Her deep blue ocean eyes were weeping. Floods of tears streaming down
her cheeks. They gave moisture to an otherwise dry and wrinkled face. I
reached out a hand. Mother held it.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself. It just seems to be the
way of things."

We sat in silence for a while. I wondered what she thought of her sons.
Whether she loved them all equally or if she had her favourites.

"Who do you love most?" I asked.

"It's not a matter of most or least," she said. " I give the same love
to everybody. Some choose not to receive it, that's all. They won't
acknowledge the love I have for them. They feel it holds them back, as
if I'm not allowing them their independence."

"But surely they must see that they are bound to you?"

"They don't want to be though. They think that they are bigger than
me. Bigger than the person that gave them life. So they have to cut
themselves off from me, completely. They don't realise the pain it
causes. They don't know how much I hurt."

I thought of my own mother and how I tried so hard not to hurt her. I
thought of what she has given me and whether I had given her the love
that she deserved. My selfishness often enabled me to take more than I
could give. I was forever mining for minerals I didn't need.

"Do you want to see my bruises?" she asked.

My fallible curiosity overcame me. When I was young I used to look away
from cuts and bruises. I had a disgust for anything that scrapped away
at the skin. But once I had seen one I wanted to see more, to have a
glimpse at the foreign world that was inside of us all. I never forced
the issue though. I never made the cut myself. I only looked through
the windows that were offered to me.

"Yes," I replied.

Mother began taking off her clothes. She seemed to be hiding her
beauty. Her skin was a rich brown, the colour of earth. She stood still
as I inspected her. The arms and legs were covered with bruises. She
had also been cut. A patchwork of red lines reaching down from her
throat to her toes, mapping the years of conflict that had been raged
against her body. Some of the cuts were fading. Her body healing and
redesigning itself. I wondered how much more of this she could
take.

"The scars on the front of my body come and go," she explained. "It's
in the back where they do most damage. I find it difficult to protect
myself there."
She turned around. From the top of her neck to the cleft of her
buttocks was a long deep gash. It wasn't the product of one single cut,
but a gradual opening up of the skin due to frequent lacerations over a
period of time. I felt sick. This was too deep into her body and looked
as if it couldn't be stitched together.

"I don't think it will heal," she said. "Could you blow on it, please.
It sometimes relieves the pain. It always comes back though."

I blew. Mother sighed. I brushed my hand over the edge of the wound,
and then kissed it.

"Thank-you," she said. "That will help for a while."

I couldn't take my eyes of it. It was the most horrific thing I had
ever seen, open and vulnerable. She turned around again and faced me.
She saw the pain I felt for her in my eyes. She smiled and reached out
her arms and pulled me close.

"Who does this to you?" I asked.

"My sons," she said.