Flashbulbs. Microphones. A circus has invaded our home And filled it with strange, jeering faces. Reporters, you once called them. And I remembered.
Avarice. Questions pour out of their incessant mouths. Like a metronome invading my brain. The thudding roar of my heart transforms their gibbering mouths into a silent movie. Funny, I never knew you were famous.
With a jaunt in my step And my smile fixed in place I saunter away to my room to weep. I throw in a skip. You would have applauded my decorum.
I fantasize that the mask slips off my face And shatters onto the floor. What a mess. Someone should clean that up. And a reporter asks me, "Excuse me, little girl, did you drop your face?" To which I have no answer.
Fast forward 5 days to Labyrinthine hallways Filing cabinets for the dead. My tiny footsteps resonate in that pristine expanse Though you no longer walk with me.
How can it be That I can only remember you As a wisp of smoke On a fickle breeze?
I am only 10, and yet I know. That I will dream of your loving touch Your silken voice. Your gentle way. But not from memory.
I will weave this tapestry of imagination So strongly, So warmly That it will provide permanent shelter From the bitter chill of your ghost. From the truth of you.
I smile once more as I leave that space Of ineffable loneliness. Why not? All is well again. You would have been proud.
For it was you who taught me to lie. It was you who taught me to fear. And it was you who taught me to forget. Mother.