The couch creaked in rhythmic fashion. Darkness permeated everything. There was music, as my mother bounced back and forth in an autistic fashion. The stress of the day working itself out in her movements.
I played with my tiny figurines. GI Joes battled at my feet. I could not see them but I felt them. How could I understand the level of her sickness. Her pain would evolve adapting and developing into darker reactions. The playful tickling mother would become a spirit of vengeance.
During the daytime we shared the music, dancing and playing. My thoughts were not straying. It would take many years for me to evolve as well. It would take many more than that to find a semblance of peace.
I cannot fault her heart. She did not have the tools to understand. She only had god and work. I had books and tv shows to show me love and truth. I had dreams of something greater. I saved them all for later while she lost bits of her soul. I am certain she swallowed her own sorrows to save me from starvation.
I am sure she struggled to protect me from life’s cold hard reality, until she became the darkness herself. I am sure that a better me could forgive her, and maybe given enough time I will feel strong enough and deep enough to do it.
But for now I am seeking the truth and strength I do not have. Plucking painful and pleasant chords; There is still music here and I will play it again.