Mother - Part 1

Graphics: Alexa Marie

I never had the ability to eloquently write about my own life. Something about it just felt too narcissistic. However, few things in this world have kept me sane and I am currently running low on sanity. The guilt might burn me alive if I don't write myself a bucket of water to put out the fire. I don't know how to explain this, but a lot of my best work started out with uncertainty tied into a neat bow with a ribbon of confidence. I will start in the middle of the story. I was never fond of beginnings. I found them to draw on too long and keep the story so far away from my greedy hands. I will not torture you with a boring beginning, so I will give you the middle first and weave in any important parts of the beginning later.

The only thing you need to know right now is that Mothers teach and daughters learn. It is one of our rules. I could not tell you why we have rules, why there are so many of them or why they are so harsh and unforgiving, they are just the rules I have been stuck with. I do not complain about my fate being intertwined with rules because I have never known anything else. 

Once, my mother was teaching me about poisonous flowers. We had a book at home that sat on the dusty redwood bookshelf, its pages lined with detailed drawings of local fauna. However, my mother had insisted we go on a hike and she showed me in person the flowers I should learn to avoid. 

Sometimes I am convinced my mother had a deviously-detailed plan with the goal in mind of getting me to hate her more than I hated God for the lot he gave me. That day, in particular, had been cold. The kind of cold with a harsh wind that chewed its way through your jacket and forced its way up your skirt. The wind had been rather forceful and pushed up against my legs and face until it felt like an icy glaze covered every inch of my skin the wind could worm its way into. My mother had known it would be cold out and yet she had decided on a hike nonetheless. 

We slowly climbed up the hill. Each step seemed to light a fire in my lungs. Not one that warmed me up, but rather a fire that burned blue and seemed to chill me even more. As my mother pointed out each plant and how it could kill me or give me a rash, I couldn't help but wish I could sprinkle some Lilly of the valley into her soup that night. The farther we walked up the steep hill the wearier I grew. It wasn't just the walking that exhausted me, but rather the knowledge that the farther we walked forward, the farther we would have to walk back when we decided to return home. I wondered what my mother would do if I gave into the withering tiredness in my soul. What would she do if I just laid down on the hill? If I let the grass braid itself into my hair and let the sunlight mist over me? What would she do? Would she yell at me till I composed myself? Would she pick me up and drag me along for the rest of the hike? Or maybe she would lay there with me. Maybe we would both lay there till the wolves came for us. 

I often regret the anger I harbored for my mother. Yet, I still cannot let it go. I have eaten anger for dinner for so many nights, it is all that's left in my stomach. I have washed my hair with anger for so long, it is now permanently woven into the braids of my hair. I have taken my tea with anger for years now, I am no longer pleased with just sugar. I am not sure how I would live without anger. How could I forgive my mother and give away my anger when I know there will be nothing left of me after? If I am not angry how could I live with all of the things I have done?

The first time I got my period I thought I was dying. The day before I got it, my next-door neighbor had kissed me. At the time I had thought kissing was a sin, so I figured God was striking me down for sinning. I was rather sad to be dying at the tender age of 11, but I had tasted chocolate cake so I figured I had enough life experiences to die. I went up to my mother while she chopped carrots in the kitchen and I asked her to make sure there were peonies at my funeral. 

“What nonsense are you talking about? The only way you're having a funeral anytime soon is if I kill you, and if I kill you, you can best assume I won't have the decency in me to plan your funeral.” My mother said the harsh words with an ease that I perceived as threatening despite her attempt to be comforting. 

Speaking has never been my strong suit. If I am not given time to think with a pen and paper, the words get all jumbled up on my tongue and tend to come out in a rather brash and offensive way. So instead of verbally answering my mother's question I simply just held up my bloody skirt for my mother to see. My mother knew me quite well and figured I had equated the blood with death. She snatched the skirt out of my hand and tossed it into the sink, then she took my hand and led me to the bathroom. While doing so she mumbled under her breath, “I can't believe I raised an idiot” and “What a dramatic little thing.” Mumbling under her breath was one of my mother's favorite things to do. 

My mother later explained to me that I was not dying or being struck down by God, but rather this was God's way of telling me that I was ready to start preparing to be a wife. I couldn't help but wonder, if I hadn't kissed the boy next door, maybe God wouldn't have thought I was ready to be a wife? I never kissed the neighbor boy ever again after that, for fear of God thinking I might be ready for things besides just getting ready to be a wife. 

By Lilo Hayes

(she/her)

Edited: Zafirah Kesington (@zafirahh.kesington)

Graphics: Alexa Marie (@aleexamarie)