Mothers are Meant for Mending

Mothers are meant for mending
Broken hearts and holey socks
They usually are greatly gifted
With drying tears and curling locks
Weaving a web of importance
Around tiny dreams and quivering hands
The mere mention of meandering misgivings
Results in precious scoldings and capacious demands
The warmth of round arms that embrace you
Despite living miles away
The love in her smiles that still chase you
More compassion than words can convey
The memory of her will still linger
Though years have grown long since she passed
Knowing she would have given anything
If you had just only asked.


The day had passed like any other. Agonizingly long and painful, as much as she hated the expanse of daylight, she dreaded the evenings more. As lonely as the day could get, there was always sunlight, sounds of the day, birds singing, children playing outside. There was always the ever-present lite breeze that jangled the windchimes outside the kitchen window to remind her of joy. But the night, as the sun slowly sank through the trees into the ground, was terrifying. Dark, dank, isolated. No other beings in the universe to hold her hand as she wept. It was too late to call, too early to sleep, if sleep ever came. She picked up the phone anyway and dialed from memory, or what was left of it. It took three attempts, but finally she reached one of her children, a familiar voice, a young male. A grown man, nonetheless, but still one of her babies. She smiled through her tears, sticky mascara clinging to her lashes and oozing down her cheeks. No answer though. Voice mail. She frowned, then sobbed. At the beep, she muttered and slurred through what she thought was a happy sounding greeting and to please call back, if you have time. I miss you, she said, or she thought.

She sat with the phone in her hand, her arm coiled in her lap like a limp snake. She may have sat for minutes or hours; it was hard to say. She stared at the wall, the wallpaper matching the exact print of the curtains, having long ago lost its trendy style. Nothing is made to last, she uttered, the words inaudible to the world. She licked her lips, dry and crusty, her breath stale and sour. She needed a drink. Again. She stood slowly and carefully, swaying on her feet, holding the edge of the bed for support. Just getting my sea legs, she reasoned, and then it occurred to her she was on solid ground. Oh, yes, I remember, she laughed. She hadn’t been on the ocean for some time. To see the ocean you would have to venture out the front door and this had not happened in months, maybe longer.

As she steadied herself, she placed the phone in its cradle. A cradle is for babies. How she missed her babies! Though long since grown, she missed them terribly. Why didn’t they call? They had forgotten her, as everyone else had: her family, her siblings, her husband. So lonely. Her heart ached for them, for someone, for anyone. Fresh tears fell, loosening the mascara, and clearing her vision a bit. She made her way towards the closet.

The door to the closet was like a mouth. Once you walked through, it swallowed you whole and did not give you up easily. As she passed into the darkness of the space, she could smell the mildew and mold that emanated from the low ceiling. It was comforting to her. The space was tiny and made her feel secure. Of course, this feeling was fleeting because once she entered, she felt the dread of what was to come. It terrified her, but she was powerless to stop it. She dug underneath the piles of empty shoeboxes and felt the cold, hard glass of the bottle. It felt strong in her hand. She knew well what was contained within, and it knew her even better. No, no, no, she told herself, as she had countless times before. She knew it would do no good. Her body ached for the warming intoxication of the alcohol, straight from the bottle. It was as if tiny tentacles leapt out from every inch of her body to pull the bottle to her lips. She was defenseless. The acrid taste had long since lost its adverse quality. She tipped the bottle up, easily downing the contents of the entire fifth. It was the second time she had done this today.

Already well-intoxicated, the effects were immediate and wholly debilitating. The world spun side-ways, tipped up and slammed into the side of her head. It was an odd feeling trying to regain her balance and she felt certain she was standing on her own two feet and in some odd way the floor was shoulder to shoulder with her. Gravity was relentless; as she struggled to get to her feet, she was pulled down again and again, her knees bruised and aching as always. Finally, she surrendered to it, falling into to a deep, hazy sleep full of demons and snakes, creeping in and out of her head like so many terrible memories. She slept in fits like this for several hours, rolling over and groaning, for all the relentless years of emotional and physical pain.

She slept in the quiet calm of the closet, opening her eyes at various intervals to stare at her shoes or the bottom of her clothes, dust-filled from lack of wear. She felt comforted by her belongings that surrounded her, but then she would realize this was not enough. Shoes and clothes can’t comfort or care for you, and they were old and unkempt anyway, like her; not pretty to look at anymore. They were once shiny and new and loved, but unless you take care of these things to preserve them, they wither and die like everything. Like her. She awoke suddenly, wide-eyed and panicked. She had no idea how long she had been asleep. Hours? Days? She had no way of knowing. There was urine soaked into the carpet. She could smell it. Her night-gown was cold and wet. She felt a rush of embarrassment and then relief; no one was there, no one would know. She expelled a sigh of relief, followed quickly by a sob of pity. No one was there. It reverberated in her head like a freight train. She was abandoned, helpless. She had no way to help herself. She could wait, someone would come, wouldn’t they? Surely, no one would forget her for days and days and not check on her. Someone had always come.

She crawled to the bed and laid on top of the covers. Her cat glared at her from the foot of the bed. He was fat and mean, but he loved her, was always with her. The thought of this made her smile and cry. She cried at the sweet sentiment of this loveless cat loving her and at the pity of this cat being the only one who loved her and stayed with her, as she fully recognized he had little choice. She slept again, this time on her back, her loud snores permeating the silence of the house. Her mouth gaped open and her rancid breath filled the space. The cat left abruptly out of irritation and disgust. This time she slept soundly, dreaming of nothing, free from nightmares. Soundly, however, does not mean peacefully.

As she rested, the sun slowly eased its way back up through the bushes and into her window. The ray of sunlight hit like a laser beam, aimed directly at her eyeball. An easy shot, as her eyes were half open. Though slow to react, she sluggishly lifted her heavy, throbbing head off of the pillow and rolled to the side of the bed. Swinging her legs over, she placed her hands at her sides and attempted to sit up. As she raised her head, a sudden sharp pain burst through her right temple. She moaned and steadied herself. Her only objective was to close the curtains so she could once again sink onto the cool surface of the bed. She reached out towards the window, grabbing a handful of curtain. She pushed herself off the bed with one hand and pulled herself forward with the other. As she stood, she became aware of just how unsteady she was, but it wasn’t the usual staggering and spinning feeling she was so accustomed to. This was different. Her head was on fire, her stomach churning and cramping, her entire body shaking. It was coming from the depths of her being, from an unidentifiable place, much like the origins of an orgasm but horrifyingly unpleasant, by contrast. She held fast to the curtain, knees half-bent, bracing herself for whatever was about to hit. She had no idea.

Her body exploded from the inside out. She immediately collapsed to the floor, spasming and seizing. She cleanly bit off her tongue in one chunk. The pain was so sudden and intense, she had no time to scream. In the few seconds she had left to look at the the world she thought of her children, what have I done? Wait. Wait. There was no waiting. As the lining in her blood vessels and organs finally gave up after years of abuse, blood poured out of every orifice of her body.

This is how my mother died.

Mothers are meant for mending
Broken hearts and holey socks
They usually are greatly gifted
With drying tears and curling locks
Weaving a web of importance
Around tiny dreams and quivering hands
The mere mention of meandering misgivings
Results in precious scoldings and capacious demands
The warmth of round arms that embrace you
Despite living miles away
The love in her smiles that still chase you
More compassion than words can convey
The memory of her will still linger
Though years have grown long since she passed
Knowing she would have given anything
If you had just only asked.