by Leitita Six

Created on: October 25, 2009

Chimera

I always knew the last time I saw my mother; she would be in her coffin. I feared, even throughout the years I refused to see her, that on that day, in the silent stillness somewhere: when purple becomes black in the faded glow of dim parlor bulbs, and the noise of my pathetic reality invades my ears, chokes my throat, I would bless God for her death-without regret. Such ignorant music, so few people; no surprise-I am aggravated with my irritation, with my misery; so strange to abhor one's self for loving someone and yet be proud of it at the same time. I miss her, I've always missed her; I miss what she never was: I miss what I thought she was: I miss what I always imagined her to be.

Her face was tight, drawn in with a lithic hardness that left me feeling sick. My hands, still, looking jaundiced from the accent lamps suspended overhead, rested against the rim of her mahogany coloured encasement. I stared at them for a moment. Memories tickled the outside of my consciousness, I yearned to touch them. There was only one I wanted at the moment, a safe one. Perhaps it was an early afternoon, morning or evening; perhaps in Fairmont, or Manchester, maybe Florida; the time and place hardly matter. The shape of both of my middle fingers slant in the direction of each hand, a long, swooping slant that travels the entire limb; my left to the direction of my left hand, my right to the direction of my right hand. The tips are more prominently curved than the others. They are a visual replica of hers, hers which now are so stiff, overlapped upon each other and bare. I kept her rings for my daughters. They deserve something tangible to associate their memories with; to say one day to someone: "This was my grandmother's". She always did have rings on her fingers. I remember that about my mother. The Linde Star was one of my favorites; an Azalea pink with the famous, colorless six rayed asterism which formed a star when it reflected light. As a child, I thought it a marvel to see a tiny bright star within the colored oval she wore around her finger. It was always there; all you had to do was turn it towards the light.

I think she should have treated me better, treated herself better. I'm not stupid though. She was sick. Her lot was her illness; my lot was her. How much I loved her! Of course I did. Of course I did-such a cruel monster with the heart of a scared child, the passions of a woman, and the distortions of an imbalance-my memory churns forward, fades,

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