Mother, Mother, Everywhere
Memories are strange things. Persistent, though they really don’t make a difference to anything. They’re like the waves crashing into the sides of the ferry, they’ve got a point to make, over and over again, but they don’t actually change the course, don’t alter the direction. Maybe they just want to be heard, like all your past mistakes crying out to you to stop.
I always thought that she’d be the one who mightn’t recognise me, but now I look at her, I can’t believe how small she is, all that’s left of her. I’m still suspicious as to why she chose me – some form of punishment, rather than favouritism as my sister would suggest. She never wanted me around much back then, so I shouldn’t think it would make any big stink to her now.
I can’t expect her to understand why I had to go. One thing’s for sure, she’d have wanted to know why I didn’t leave a note. I’ve heard her speech a thousand times, but who’d have thought the leading lady would end up being the understudy for a part she was never to play.
She was never the most understanding of women, even with her favourites. I was a tougher challenge, though she never gave in. Even when I was caught stealing from the corner shop, she paid them off. ‘He’s still my son!’ she yelled, and there was a threat for me in that. I twist off the lid and for a split second imagine I can smell her perfume. How she’d love to be here - “if you want something doing properly, do it yourself!” As I empty the contents she twirls gracefully, like that one time she danced at a Christmas party, and then is gone.