Last Words

To say that it could have been nothing is no surprise--that I almost treated it as such, like so many useless things I’ve found littered across the past--I almost wish it were so.

The thought of that wish sends a wave laden with emotions through my stomach and nearly becomes manifest.

Oh God Daddy, why didn't we just leave?

At the end of her life, it seemed my mother was always nauseous--a cruel, superfluous addendum to her will that only I was now entrusted.

I'm so nauseated...

She parroted over and over again. Her more-proper-than-she-was-raised-to-talk southern accent made the word crawl like a lizard in heat off her tongue.

It was a different time. Them that knew her said her soul had sprung too early; she was born ahead of her time. Life is hard, but her life was too hard--harder than it should have been for one so fair with such talent, anyways.

Depression baby.

That’s what my mother was. Born into sadness and want...constant, aching, consuming want.

She kept everything, every possession, every trinket, every dollar store rug, every church bulletin and tucked them all away, little hidden pieces of herself. She hid them away in drawers, tucked them in old purses, and waited for them to become something....anything.

Things became her. Slowly, insidiously, the hedonism was palpable long after she died.

A hoarder's garden: fruitful potential energy everywhere. But she drowned her garden with coffee, stifled it with doubt, and stained it with aerated tar from Virginia tobacco.

And here I come. Come to weed her garden of dysphoria.

Gaia gone wrong. Persephone stuck in an endless winter. Daphne without the gods' grace, ensnared and trapped by Apollo.

We could have been so happy and left all this behind...

I think I almost forgave her. It wasn't her fault, after all--she had a really hard childhood.

I think I really wanted to forgive her. Forgive her for her conditional love wrapped perfectly with bows and string completely held together without tape. Her prolonged syllables filled the air with a kind of cement that was tangibly plastered on everything. Giving the putridly smooth and secure illusion that only proper southern ladies and their reputations so depend.

Everyone loved my mother, idolized her; people still come up to me about how she was the best teacher they'd ever had, or how her dumplin' stew was their favorite part about Sundays at the baptist church, her fashion sense, her hairstyle, her this, her that. No one can ever imagine that someone so good at so many things could be so phony.

At home, she made daddy and me miserable for existing. Weighing her revenge on some twisted scale of time measured one scathing, demoralizing comment after another. Never quite fully avenging that inner child, but certainly trying. Meanwhile, my step-brother, John, did nothing wrong--ever.

For years I asked on repeat, "Daddy, why won't you just leave her, and take me with you? You go, I go."

But he loved her.

That was that.

No matter what she did to him, no matter how cruel she was to either of us, he loved her like only a moth loves a lit candle.

I suppose, in the end, it was fire that killed him. The kind of fire you light yourself, and then breathe deeply. Over and over again. I handled his funeral arrangements while my bed-ridden mother chain-smoked, watching the hallmark channel and screaming at the actors on the screen. John nursed a hangover, while he kept her company in bed and cheered mother on:

She deserved better...she deserved more...

She deserved to be one of those women on television, she was prettier, after all, John would say.

When she was 16, Julliard awarded her a scholarship to play the piano. Quite suddenly, scarlet fever consumed her body for months; she couldn't go. So, it seemed the next best thing was to run away with the high school quarterback, Forest Parker. They were about as happy as any two teenage narcissists can be with one another and clearly not the answer for her problem: she was still stuck in this tiny town, this tiny time. And now she was a scandalous sinner sort.

Her reformation attempt through music was self-prescribed: a lifetime of playing piano and organ southern baptist church tunes--and nothing else. Mother missed nearly every one of my dance recitals but she was there every goddam Sunday.

My step-brother's father, her second husband, Red somethin' or other. Well, Red drank too much and liked the sound the back of his hand made across her face. He liked the sound his belt made better, but her cooking quality seemed to decline too sharp, too long for his disciplinary tastes.

He left her with nothing but a toddler. That toddler, John, grew up to be an asshole, too.

Why am I doing this? Why am I STILL giving any credit to any justifications for her actions? God how I wish I had just tossed that little black book out without reading it.

You chronicled the abuse. You hid it near all the unsent letters to your high school sweetheart, Evelyn, you hid them all with the last words you thought you'd ever write.

I'm sure you didn't mean for me to find it all, that's not your style. But you lied, daddy. You lied to me for years!

You may have loved mother, but this is too dark, too deep. Why couldn't we have run away from all this? I'd've been happier hungry and livin' in a box with you.

When it truly came down to leaving, were you too scared for yourself or for her to be alone? Your words don't speak to me like they used to--I don't understand. I can't hear you.

How do I begin to process this when the process only affects my deepest, darkest parts...

This truth no longer applies to the world I reside. My current reality does not house you, or mother, or John...you're all dead and I'm still here. So why am I still so angry?

I thought our story of toil and suffering abuse was for love and family. To feed that story with this new fodder, to weave this posthumous tapestry, to break my heart and yours again and again, and for what? Where we ever really living?

Everything hurts now--especially my stomach. This is crazy and I never knew--you never told me. Everyone thought sure, maybe--wait, was that affectionate or gross? There was never any real evidence...

I would gladly write myself out of this story for you to know happiness, daddy.

When I finally find you in the next life, we'll be as happy as you like. We'll write anew understanding, together. You, me, and Evelyn.

For now, I have to learn to live with the ruinous words of that inconspicuous little black book. Your very own oedipal Grecian drama in the sticks and swamps of the deep south. Oh! what those ladies should have thought if they'd only known...

I can't do this anymore. To anyone, anymore. You should be so much happier, my darling, if I removed myself from our journey. I have been faithful and diligent, duty satisfied to the best of my being, but it was never enough for you. There is no true love in your heart for me, alas, I believed I could prove you otherwise, but I failed. Any affection I've received has been for the public eye. I cannot touch you or be with you--I barely warrant your glance or acknowledgment.

When I'm gone, my dear, the money will take care of you and John. This path you've chosen in search of true happiness has so often beguiled me--for how could I ever compete? The love you have for each other knows no bounds once I am gone, no obstacles. If I end this torture now for us both, you and John may live happily ever after.

My God! What have I done to deserve this?

Please know I tried.

Please think more kindly of me once I am gone.

May God have mercy on my soul...