Walk A Mile

Mum always said that she'd been treated badly.
That there was reason behind the enmity.
Logic mixed with pain behind the cold eyes.
Mum said she used to be different back then.

"Walk a mile on my path, son"....that's what mum always said whenever she sensed judgement or accusation on my part.

Mum said she used to be someone else. That she laughed and sang and loved and lived out loud like people do on all those TV shows where things resolve themselves and people are happy, and all neatly within the scheduled time-frame.

Mum said she misses that.

She shows me pictures to corroborate, like some defence lawyer trying to sway a jury of only one.
I've seen them all already.
More times than I can count.

A familiar ritual; She points at the smiles, the teeth, the arms warmly wrapped around each other as proof of life.
As proof of hope.
As a reason for going on.

I wonder if I truly understand.
If my empathy isn't a lie and my reassurance just window dressing.

In her bad moments mum concedes that she's gone now, forever. She becomes no-one and is unable to dredge anything out of the blackness.

She is still here, though. And sometimes she appears briefly before vanishing again like that speck on the periphary of your vision you can never quite focus on.

The glimpses are becoming fewer and fewer. Soon they will vanish.

My mile begins now.