When I was eight years old a poem in hand I had written for her in school, my mother was chopping onions in the kitchen, tears falling down her face. I cried too but never in front of anyone like this. I walked into the house, baited breath wanting so much for her approval; I had taken my time to perfect it and got back my first A+.
School was never easy for me, I did not relate to the other children on the level, I was introverted then, and still awkward I see where I have begun here.
I ran in throwing the page toward her like a cat delivers a dead bird, a hidden gift only for the giver, unrewarded.
My mother looked just like Ms. Jane Mansfield then, her full bosom thrusting out beneath a sleeveless summer dress accentuated her narrow waist, she had beautiful golden blonde hair always perfect. Today the mascara had streaked down her face and nestled against her jaw, but I knew it was not the onions.
I was all smiles
“Go watch TV!” she clipped
I think this is where the love ended for good, that day in the kitchen I pushed “but I wrote…” the paper closer
“NOW!” she swept it off the counter with a breeze that sent me fleeing. Under her breath “stupid child”
She hadn’t been like this, she was a sweet woman, but something changed in her that day, I felt it leave. As I burst out of the room I feel that I had changed too. No longer was I the little boy who had looked up to this woman but the burden she was so unwilling to carry. I disappeared inward.
She never saw me really smile again.