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.