Mother of The Century

I live in the front bedroom of my son’s house. Everything I own, and most people would say I have nothing, surrounds me. Another time I lived in the front bedroom of my recently dead father’s and more recently dead mother’s house. Everything I owned, and then most people would say I owned some things, surrounded me.

My son, well, all of the children, think I don’t do anything. Daughter told me so while tossing her anger from her shoulders onto mine - “You don’t do anything!” I’ve taken her anger. It sits on my shoulders alongside anger of 59 years starting in life’s year seven through the abuser years. Gifted to me from the dead mother and father years, of course I took the anger of their other children. Dead mother so so so wanted us all to get along while she reveled, in fact, loved seeing us hate one another. It may be the sole piece of armor I claimed making dead mother’s and father’s other children cease to exist to me.

I set all angers beside me everywhere I am. They touch me to be sure I know they’re there. I make more room for the angers than I make for myself. Room for me has grown so small. I keep my own anger squarely on my shoulders for comfort, warmth, familiarity. It fits perfectly. Theirs? It sits beside me taking up more room than available and is intent on suffocating me.

And, well, I don’t do anything. Except write to you from my mostly darkened but once in a while joyful heart and mind through this screen into your eyes.

I’m invisible with this dark suffocating mask and the lost leg and all. Haven’t been seen since the days I was told I held value (if I ever truly did according to the rules. The rules that mouth words but do not back them up with a culture that believes in the words): golden daughter of dead mother and dead father. Oh the joy of being seen for nine or ten years decades ago when I was no confident threat to the world.

My foible? I spoke of things beyond their dreams, their imaginations, their plans for me. Invisibility. Painted hastily over me with their pain, their fears, their silences and shameful secrets. No further lessons than the silent shrill deafening lessons on how to disappear.

There were whispers across their households (my children’s), siblings and significant only chats. Time to move her. Nothing’s expected anymore. A waste.