Mother - Part 2

I remember vividly when my mother taught me how to knit. I remember vividly because I considered stabbing her with one of my needles. Then I remembered what she had told me about hell, and I didn’t feel like I would enjoy the whole burning-in-hellfire-as-an-eternal-punishment situation. So, I sat quietly, learning how to do a purl stitch while my mother berated me for my messy hair. I remember my mother’s hands being awfully shaky that day too. Her hands were quivering and her eyes had a look in them that was rather similar to fear. At the time though I didn't believe my mother was capable of feeling anything at all, I thought she was just hungry or something like that. I now, of course, have grown just a tad and realized my mother was human after all. Some nights I sit and wonder what my mother feared. What kept her up at night? What was she always looking out for over her shoulder? When did her breath hitch in paralyzing terror? More importantly, why?

My mother also taught me how to cook. Her favorite thing to make was soup, in fact, we ate it for dinner most nights. I enjoyed it the most when she taught me how to make bread. The way she kneaded the dough allowed me to get a good look at her. My mother's hands had a plentiful amount of light, thin scars running across them. I never dared to ask her about them because the curiosity was never outweighed by the inarguable fact that if I asked I would go days without eating. My mother was a cruel and vain woman who didn't like people staring at her imperfections. So when she was teaching me how to knead bread, I took the opportunity to study every single scar across her skin, using the excuse of trying to copy her kneading technique. I enjoyed the tedious monotony of kneading the bread. It gave me time to think. I used that time to come up with wild outrageous stories about my mother's scars. A different story for each scar, each story more complex and fabulous than the last. For a short period of time, I wanted nothing more than to share my stories with my mother. I could not handle the way my stories banged against the walls of my head, demanding to be heard. I think my mother grew suspicious of my yearning to talk to her because shortly after the lesson in making bread she gifted me a journal. 

“You don’t ever shut that mouth of yours. Children, especially young girls, are meant to look pretty and be quiet. The next time you feel like talking just write it down there instead.” My mother let the words tumble out of her mouth as if she was simply telling me to do the dishes and not telling me to shut up. I got the message loud and clear. To this day, I have never shared my stories with my mother. Perhaps it is a good thing though, that I was taught early to write instead of speak. Otherwise, I may have never discovered my passion for the way words flow out of a fountain pen just right. I think I may have words flowing through my veins instead of blood. I am almost sure it is the steadiness of my hand as I write that keeps me alive and not my pumping heart. If I had to choose death or to live and never write again, I would not need more than to hear the question to know my answer. 

Some days though I think I am just writing myself a doorway to madness. My mother swears one day I will write myself into a nervous breakdown. It leaves a bitter taste on my tongue to say this but she might just be right. Writing will inevitably be my downfall just as it is the air that fills my lungs. This might all sound rather dramatic, but I have always been the type to exaggerate. I am not well known for my subtlety. My mother often pointed out my inability to let things be. She found my talent for making mountains out of molehills quite exhausting. I exhausted my mother very often. Dear God, she must have been tired. I’m not surprised she didn’t have anything left in her when the time came for her to fight. 

A week before the ritual my mother did something that I promised myself I would never forgive her for. I am not one for keeping promises. It was pouring so hard you could hear the rainfall onto our thick roof, the way each drop clattered above. My mother had made cookies. I accidentally knocked the tray of cookies onto my leg. I just wanted a cookie, I didn’t have time to wait for them to cool down. My mother was absolutely exasperated at the situation I had caused.

"This will teach you a lesson in patience and suffering, two values every woman must be well acquainted with to be a good wife.” My mother spoke with a deadly calmness coating her throat and words. It matched the death grip she had on my arm as she dragged me to the backyard. “I want you to patiently wait out here and suffer,” She said it with a huff as she threw me into the rain. 

“You can’t leave me out here!” I rasped, I meant to yell, but my lungs couldn’t get enough air to yell. 

My mother didn’t respond. She simply walked back inside and dead-bolted the door behind her. She stood behind the locked door and looked into my eyes. I could not tell you what she was hoping she would find. I myself searched every inch of her body for some sort of compassion or motherly love, something to give me a reason to still love her. She walked away before I could find what I wanted. 

The rain felt more sharp than cold really. I could have sworn it was tearing through my clothes and cutting into my skin. Yet every time I checked to see what the pool of liquid at my feet was, it was never blood, just rain. My mother eventually let me back in. She let me in after everyone had finished supper. The kitchen had smelled more enticing than anything I had ever smelled before. When I passed the dining table with its empty scraps and food-less plates, I almost lost my shit. I was so angry and hungry and cold. I knew I wasn’t dead but I was sure I wasn’t alive either. I figured I had fallen into an in-between category. All I knew was that my thoughts were that of a dog with rabies and not a human. The absence of food on the dining table made me want to bite my fingers off and pull at my hair until my scalp was bleeding. I wanted to pull each tooth out one by one because that would have been less painful. I almost picked off my own skin when my mother sent me upstairs without dinner. 

By Lilo Hayes

(she/her)

Edited: Halima Jibril (@h.alimaa)

Graphics: Alexa Marie (@aleexamarie)