She’ll Never Know

July 29, 2012 § 2 Comments

She’ll never know.

It’s a simple truth.

She’s sitting on the living room chair, the one that doesn’t go at all with the color of the walls, or the texture of the couch. The one she always forces me to leave so that she can sit down instead. On the TV screen a desperate woman cries.

She’ll never know.

Get me some tea. Fold the laundry. I hate this stupid house.

The Smartfood bag crackles. The woman sobs.

I hate this house, she says, but the TV drowns her out. The woman’s hurt must be made known.

It’s a thing I often don’t allow myself to think, because it seems selfish, unfair. But maybe I also don’t allow myself to think it because it’s true.

Because I can try to sit this woman down, I can try to open up the floodgates of my soul, I can try to get her to look at me right in the eye with something, something I can’t quite name but still hunger for desperately. Something, I guess, that says I’d like to really get to know you. I’d like to really listen. I’d like to know.

Because she’s my mother, and I want her to see. Me. And looking at her, seeing her waste away in her long-held anger, that hardened hurt, I know I’ll still be looking for that look when I’m thirty, or forty, or dead.

She’ll never Know Me.

And if somehow, all these years, she’s been looking over at me, and wondering, wondering…

I’ll never know.

So instead, we’ll watch TV. We’ll waste away together, these two human beings with hearts that always hurt and hands that don’t know how to touch. We’ll sever ourselves again and again. Bind ourselves and cut.

Together we stare at the screen.

And the woman cries.

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