“You’re so brave and quiet, I forget you’re suffering,” my mother crooned as she rocked next to my bed.
She had escaped from the attic and remembered through her cobwebs how to find my room.
She smiled at me, a flash of lucidity in her eyes. From the pocket of her tattered, faded flowered smock she brought out my present, pressing its coldness into my hands.
My mother made me dolls. Toys with maniacal smiles and lunacy eyes. Dolls as cracked and inhuman on the outside as she felt on the inside.
It was game to hide my latest treasure so it would not be found and whisked away. To give no hint of my mother’s midnight creep.
I often dreamt of her. I’d float on the ceiling on her half of the garret, looking down at her work table, her favourite teacup and saucer to the side.
The china one so thin and opaque, you could see tomorrow through it.
“You’re so brave and quiet, I forget you’re suffering,” I say, touching my mother’s cold, sad hands. She sits at the work table studying her tea cup now, more than working on her creations.
I turn back to my work – rip the film out of the camera. No one but us are allowed to see those pictures. I’ll make more for the world, like the ones on the table, later. When mother isn’t so sad.
Inspired by yet another amazing collage by Yves. (Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, Writing Prompt # 149; collage #18) There are so many stories in here! This is but one.
The quote, “You’re so brave and quiet I forget you’re suffering” is by Ernest Hemingway
@ a darkened house (adh)