My Mother

There isn't much I can say about my mother. She was never sweet with kind and caring eyes. I wanted to believe that when I was younger, wanted to look past her cold exterior and see the warmth every mother should have. I wanted to find it and claim it mine, no abusive man or addictive drug would take. She isn't changed for rehabilitated, mother is still cold. Like fragile glass, getting ready to shatter at any moment.

It wasn't till the last few years when I gave her. I stopped caring wither or not she called me. I stopped writing forgiveness poems addressed with her name. I gave up, and sometimes I wonder if I really would care if she died.

How could you miss someone who was never there? With the loss of communication, she could have died months ago, and I would never know. Most of her family is passed and if they haven't they don't keep in touch with her. The unspoken and unwritten agreement throughout the Knight clam is that 'we don't speak of Timi'. Don't brink her up at dinner, don't ask anybody if we know where she is. We are all great actors when we pretend she doesn't exist.

I call her mother, unlike my other parent. He is Dad. The word dad is comforting, and normal (to a certain extent). The word Mother seems so uncaring and cruel. It feels hollow and broken when I say it. I feel my face flush and my heart race when the term mother escapes my lips.

I can recall the first time I watched mother inject herself with poison. It was late at night, and of the few rare moments when Dad would let me go see her. She sat, on her tattered sofa, the air smelled of cigarette smoke and day old vomit. I say next to her watching some late night talk show. Mother started to twitch and scratch at her wrists. The night was cool, but she started to sweat. Mother reached under the couch, and pulled out a small wooden box. Pulling a key from her pocket she unlocked the box, laying inside was a small bottle, with a cloudy liquid inside. Along with that was a large syringe.

The rest, I try to block out, but almost every night it plagues my once presently ignorant dreams. I've seen her do it more than once, and it's never just one illegal killer. ranged from something small, a short quick fix that you can buy at gas stations, to times where she floats on white for days.
There was no need to mention it, everybody already knew. Another one of the unspoken truths about this women. This women, my uncaring mother.