When a Lullaby Isn’t Enough

My mother wasn’t the easiest to love…

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…