Mother
Breakfast
“…The police chief has come forward to comment on this giant tragedy. Caution is recommended until further notice. Don’t leave your house alone; if you most go out, travel in a group...”
I can still hear the broadcaster’s voice reverberating in my ears as I wait for Mother to come fix breakfast; can still see the pixelated depict of the crime scene, the pale white walls that could line anyone’s house, and the blurred blood stains that make their ways past those walls like a snake’s trail.
Blood. Blood and body fluids. Bodily fluids let go. Messy. But all out. All out.
An hour passes.
“Ah, Mother. Always sleeping in.”
I push myself off from the couch and hurry towards the back door, waving away – when I get there – the flies that have accumulated upon the rotten wooden frame. Turn the knob and shove again the condensed wood. The flies rush in around me like the cats Mother used to care for years ago – before I put my foot down. Buzzing here and there. Better than meowing, I announce. But the cats had left a permanent reminder of their presences. The smell. Though, I have adapted, I wish Mother would clean away the rancid odor.
I blink in the harsh light, and glare sideways towards the curtains drawn on the windows. Mother. Always pulling it tight.
I push my way through the clutter and draw them back.
“Mother!” I turn. “It is 8 o’clock.”
The ray touch the bed and bring Mother to light. The gaunt look on her cheeks. The milky white irises under drawn eyelids. The uneventful stillness of her chest. The substantial slimness of her form beneath the sheets. Just dozing. Just dozing.
I step forward, disturbing and disperses the pests that had settled on her sunken skin, leaving their dank, little footprints on her flesh. I take her clammy hand, forcing the fingers around my own to hold them there. “Mother.” I whisper. “It’s time to get up.”
She remains in her bed, laying limp in the arms of sleep.
I cock my head to get another look at her. “Are you ill?”
Lifting a hand gently to her forehead, I check her temperature: Cold, so cold and conclude…
“Of course, you must be sick. My dear Mother.”
I rest her thin arm back on her spoiled comforter.
“You stay in bed.” And more finalized, “I’ll make breakfast.”
I lean downwards, again disrupting the insects and place a kiss on her thin scalp. “Get some more rest, my sweet Mother.”
I stand and return to the curtains, tugging them to touch. Once they are in position, I step softly to leave. In the dark, the flies confuse themselves as they stir to fly. Coursing this way and that; little slaps pelting my skin as I move. Finally, I am at the door and I contort myself to fit between the wooden panels. Trying to be quiet. Must not wake Mother.
I pry myself out into the hallway and close the door in my wake. Breathing a less sour breath, I tread towards the kitchen and begin the breakfast I will make for Mother.
The eggs bubble in their pan; and bacon pops and sizzles. The toaster jerks up its burnt slices. And all the while, the television fusses in the background, calling out the dead and the living.
I can still hear the broadcaster’s voice reverberating in my ears as I wait for Mother to come fix breakfast; can still see the pixelated depict of the crime scene, the pale white walls that could line anyone’s house, and the blurred blood stains that make their ways past those walls like a snake’s trail.
Blood. Blood and body fluids. Bodily fluids let go. Messy. But all out. All out.
An hour passes.
“Ah, Mother. Always sleeping in.”
I push myself off from the couch and hurry towards the back door, waving away – when I get there – the flies that have accumulated upon the rotten wooden frame. Turn the knob and shove again the condensed wood. The flies rush in around me like the cats Mother used to care for years ago – before I put my foot down. Buzzing here and there. Better than meowing, I announce. But the cats had left a permanent reminder of their presences. The smell. Though, I have adapted, I wish Mother would clean away the rancid odor.
I blink in the harsh light, and glare sideways towards the curtains drawn on the windows. Mother. Always pulling it tight.
I push my way through the clutter and draw them back.
“Mother!” I turn. “It is 8 o’clock.”
The ray touch the bed and bring Mother to light. The gaunt look on her cheeks. The milky white irises under drawn eyelids. The uneventful stillness of her chest. The substantial slimness of her form beneath the sheets. Just dozing. Just dozing.
I step forward, disturbing and disperses the pests that had settled on her sunken skin, leaving their dank, little footprints on her flesh. I take her clammy hand, forcing the fingers around my own to hold them there. “Mother.” I whisper. “It’s time to get up.”
She remains in her bed, laying limp in the arms of sleep.
I cock my head to get another look at her. “Are you ill?”
Lifting a hand gently to her forehead, I check her temperature: Cold, so cold and conclude…
“Of course, you must be sick. My dear Mother.”
I rest her thin arm back on her spoiled comforter.
“You stay in bed.” And more finalized, “I’ll make breakfast.”
I lean downwards, again disrupting the insects and place a kiss on her thin scalp. “Get some more rest, my sweet Mother.”
I stand and return to the curtains, tugging them to touch. Once they are in position, I step softly to leave. In the dark, the flies confuse themselves as they stir to fly. Coursing this way and that; little slaps pelting my skin as I move. Finally, I am at the door and I contort myself to fit between the wooden panels. Trying to be quiet. Must not wake Mother.
I pry myself out into the hallway and close the door in my wake. Breathing a less sour breath, I tread towards the kitchen and begin the breakfast I will make for Mother.
The eggs bubble in their pan; and bacon pops and sizzles. The toaster jerks up its burnt slices. And all the while, the television fusses in the background, calling out the dead and the living.