![]() ![]() I walked until my neighbor found me, wandering aimlessly, just trying to find my way to my mother. Not that I knew the directions, I must have been 3. I remember thinking she had gone to the grocery store-I set out on the streets to catch up with her. I wish I could go back and remember what I felt in that specific moment, but for whatever reason, I felt compelled to chase after her. She once left my sisters and I with a babysitter, she and my dad must have gone out to dinner with friends. She’s my favorite song.Īll my best memories come back clearly to me I feel it in my stomach, in my bending knees, in the emotional grip of my heart-like the one you feel when you see the end of a movie, and your favorite song happens to play. It’s almost not enough to say I love you, because what I feel is so much more-it’s a love filled with anger and desperation I love her so much that I’m angry with the lack of the right word, the lack of the right expression. I can’t let her see I let it out only when my face is hidden in her shoulder as she prays over me at night. I want to tell her how I feel, I want to show her the racing love that I feel for her. There’s a red stained wall that grows between mothers and daughters. Makes today seem rather sad, so much has changed. ![]() Her kiss on my cheek lingers still, and despite all the other little girls’ looks, it felt like a magic touch that may have worked-considering I didn’t cry on stage. My mom knelt down to me backstage, smiling at me and encouraging me-I’ll do great. My first dance recital is a baby blue blur, shiny tap shoes on small feet. Lookin’ back on how it was in years gone by and the good times that I had,įeathers in my hair, the first time I wore red lipstick. She won’t be enough, and I’ll never know another care so selfless as the care of my mother. A stranger who will not understand how I need a cold ice water beside my bed. A stranger who will not sing ‘Strawberry Fields’ to me as I fall asleep. I will go on my own, I will live with a stranger. When they get to the part when he’s breakin’ her heart, it can really make me cry.Īnd next year I will leave her, and leaving her is the last thing I want to do. She told me something that night I’ll never forget. She looked at me with the most sentimental of eyes, and although I expected her to feel sad and resentful towards me, she smiled. I hate being the youngest, I hate being the one to rip away all that’s left of youth from my parents. The night before my seventeenth birthday, I pulled back from my mom’s embrace with tears in my eyes. But her voice was a kind of home it was my mother, it was my mother’s voice. Her voice was such a comfort-it wasn’t perfect pitch it was a high school production of Grease’s Sandy. I wish she still sang to me now, but we both know it can never be like that again. Laying in my bed, my blanket beside me with a pink heart sewn in, covering up the time I burned it on the stove. My mother’s voice echoed in my ears, singing every wo-o-wo-o. ![]() ![]() Those were such happy times and not so long ago. I hadn’t heard it in years-maybe I had never heard the original song, Karen Carpenter reflecting on her youth and the sha-la-la-las that made her smile, laugh, cry. I recognized the words, and I sang along like every lyric was stored in a locked box with a melody sensitive keypad. When I was young I listened to the radio waiting for my favorite songs. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |