Sarah

Merely 50 miles away from the Lind family is Sarah, who cannot simply be defined as one person. Sarah is cautious of every step she takes; not because each step will bring her further away from what she’s always known- Sarah is stagnant- but because she doesn’t want to stir her mother from sleep. The absence of love throughout generations of her family has had a profound effect on this young woman. It is as if all the love her mother, mother’s mother, mother’s mother’s mother, etc had been starved of resides in her body. Sarah is brimming; but she is unsure of what with, and unsure of what could be done with so much of one thing. Unaware that she could likely single-handedly save the world with the volume of love she possesses, Sarah devotes the majority of her time to her mother Maia- the walking bruise that gave her life and in turn lost her sanity.

Sarah was first introduced to her role as a mother at seven when she watched her father push her mother’s hands into the kitchen counter, each of her fingers snapping individually; a visual representation of what had just occurred in her brain. The last tendons holding the halves of her mind together had finally broken. It was then that Maia’s soul could be seen escaping from her body, burning brightly in its momentary freedom before being snuffed out like a candle. She forgot how to speak; she forgot who her own daughter was; she forgot her long, tedious past of negligence and abuse. All she could remember was her broken and weary body, as it was the only thing that remained, although she was even unsure if it was her own.

Sarah has voluntarily become Maia’s crutch. She has let go of her aspirations of becoming a writer, thinking that this must be her cause. Perhaps she can compensate for the lack of love her mother had been subject to. Perhaps she can create good memories for her mother and restore her being. Perhaps her mother can become something wonderful. Sarah tells herself this every day as she dresses Maia, feeds her, reads to her, and puts her to bed. Subconsciously she knows she is meant for more, she just doesn’t know what, and is often too exhausted to pursue it. This creates a unique kind of sadness that presses down on her breast bone, making it harder to breath, and binding her to a cycle she has accepted she can never be free from. Her love remains welling up inside of her, with no outlet for release.

The End

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