Sunday, 9 December 2012

Does your mother know about this?

Hello peeps!

If you remember, last Sunday's prompt was "Something you never told your mother."  I have to say it gave me a bit of a hard time.  I really had no idea what I was going to write about.  However, when it hit me, I was so connected with my idea that I even failed to see my boss who was riding the bus right next too me.  My brain is a nice place to get lost in but it's difficult to emerge back sometimes.

Before I post my answer to the prompt however, I want to remind you that you're welcome to post links to your own answer on your blog in the comment section.  I will list the links in the next post for everyone to see.  Also, this week's prompt will be posted later today.

Enough talk, here it is!  Enjoy!

***Prompt 216 - Something you never told your mother.***

My mother lives in a quaint little retirement home nestled between a park and a row of blue houses on a quiet street.  On Sundays, regardless of the sky’s mood, I ride my bike and pay her a visit.  I am never late and she is always on time, waiting for me by the gates.  She dresses fine and looks her best for me.  She calls me dear and flirts with me.  It is our little game which, unlike us, never gets old.

My mother, despite her years, is a sound and healthy woman.  She likes to walk in the park holding my arm, naming the flowers as we pass by.  She’s an erudite and I an avid learner.  When the weather is inclement, we stay indoors and play chess.  No old lady games for her; she is yet in her prime, or so she likes to say.  She wins a lot and I cheat a little.  Her knowing smile tells me my tricks are anything but subtle.

My mother was a librarian.  Her love for books is grandiose, her appetite for written words infinite.  Her eyes, worn out companions, have long lost their sharpness and so, mine take over.  She listens ardently at Dickens by the fireplace but also laughs wholeheartedly at Pratchett in the garden.  Together, we have lived the lives of many.

My mother is sometimes melancholic.  She looks at my blue eyes and tells me her father had the same.  To prove it, she takes me to her room and takes a faded shoe box from under her bed.  She blows the dust off her life and shows me yellowed photographs of long gone people.  A dapper young man. A smiling bride.  A chubby infant.  She tells me little, her eyes filling with tears at time.  I put the memories away and hold her soft hand.   I try to avoid her bare ring finger.  She smiles at me softly.

My mother likes me to talk.  To dissipate the hazy past of happiness lost, she asks me to tell her stories of my life.  I confide in her my dreams and hopes.  I tell her of my wife and children.  I show her pictures and drawings.  She never asks to meet them.  Sometimes, I wonder if she knows.

My mother walks me to the door when I leave.  She waves to me as my footsteps crush the gravel path quietly.  Her eyes are on me as I fail to tell her what I must, as I finger the ring that rests heavy in my pocket.

My mother knows everything there is to know about me. 

Everything. Except that I am her son.



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