She helps her with her boots, holds her arm as she guides her into bed.
Tiny little feet she has. Tender Tootsies. She places the boots silently by the door, the tops fall slightly to the left. Her mother has begun to pull up the covers but can't quite make it before the waves of sick hit her full on.
She almost doesn't make it. She holds the stainless steel beneath her mouth, looking politely away while murmering soft tones of safety. She knows it's a lie, keeps her words vague. Her hands become warmed.
After the requisite amount of time, and bile has passed, her mother sighs and lies back onto the bed. They stare silently at each other for long moments. The bowl begins to grow cold, and she can now smell her mother's stomach. They'll never talk about it.
Water hits water and is flushed away. She can't help but think she's loosing parts of her down that drain. She picks the bowl back up, recalls that her last birthday cake came from it, the medium one, best with the old mixer.
She hears her begin to retch again, and races for the front room. She doesn't make it this time. She lets her finish, since there's nothing to be done about it now. It's mostly ginger ale and crackers.
Her mother begins to cry.
The cake was chocolate, devil's food chocolate. Her favorite.
Tiny little feet she has. Tender Tootsies. She places the boots silently by the door, the tops fall slightly to the left. Her mother has begun to pull up the covers but can't quite make it before the waves of sick hit her full on.
She almost doesn't make it. She holds the stainless steel beneath her mouth, looking politely away while murmering soft tones of safety. She knows it's a lie, keeps her words vague. Her hands become warmed.
After the requisite amount of time, and bile has passed, her mother sighs and lies back onto the bed. They stare silently at each other for long moments. The bowl begins to grow cold, and she can now smell her mother's stomach. They'll never talk about it.
Water hits water and is flushed away. She can't help but think she's loosing parts of her down that drain. She picks the bowl back up, recalls that her last birthday cake came from it, the medium one, best with the old mixer.
She hears her begin to retch again, and races for the front room. She doesn't make it this time. She lets her finish, since there's nothing to be done about it now. It's mostly ginger ale and crackers.
Her mother begins to cry.
The cake was chocolate, devil's food chocolate. Her favorite.
That's powerful xx
Posted by
Anonymous |
8:31 a.m.
I have some tales similar I could share....perhaps I should some time.
Posted by
Anonymous |
2:35 p.m.
Good work.
Posted by
Anonymous |
8:32 p.m.
Hi Blogger,
Thank you very much for this post, it was an informative post, very useful.
I'm currently researching information for kid adhd, would that be a topic that you are familiar with?
If you could help point me to the right direction it would be much appreciated.
Thank you for your time and effort.
Posted by
Anonymous |
3:24 a.m.
Man, does that spam reek!! Your writing is powerful and moving. I hope it also provides some small healing for you. My heart bursts with compassion and love for the small child in the essay. Kris
Posted by
Anonymous |
11:29 a.m.