Inside My Arms

Honest conversation.
Honest words.
Honest love.

I never talked to God.
Never thought about him.
Never once wanted to be close to him.

But now,
I'm not so sure.

The walls are white.
It smells like windex.
I'm staring at my mother.
She's staring back at me.

We're at a mental ward.

I was here once.
But that was so long ago.
And I never imagined I would be back again.
Especially for my own mother.

She finally cracked.
With the depression.

The doctor said,
"Heres some pills."
She said,
"Does it work?"
The doctor said,
"It'll help you with your depression."
She said,
"I'll give it a try."

But all it did was make her numb.

I know that feeling.
Of feeling numb.
Like living through someone
else's body.
It's worse than depression.
At least with depression,
you can feel.

My mother stopped taking it.
Very bad.
Very bad indeed.

On Friday night,
she went out into the neighborhood.
Got out the kitchen knife.
Screaming as if there were fire on her.

Now she's the neighborhood wacko.
And now I'm the daughter of the wacko.

The groans of the other patients
woke me up from my thought.

My mother looks very tired.

I try to smile.
It doesn't work.
So instead,
I keep my mouth shut.
Afraid to say anything else.

I keep my breathing steady.
She tries to hold in her breath.

It went on like this for a couple of minutes.
Before she said,
"I'm going to sleep."

I nodded.
Got up.
And walked out the door.
Without a single bye.