She stood cold and hard,
letting her weight fall against
the doorframe she stood in.
Coming into the room
she brought a thickness with her.
It lingered just slightly behind
her heels -
a seriousness.
Her lips were tight and
drained of all color.
A smile did not decorate her
face often,
and when it did
it came out looking more
like a wince -
almost as though the
act itself gave her more
pain than pleasure.
Finding her voice
she whispered:
"Your daddy's gone.."
and her face hardened.
"Now go feed the dog."
"But Momma..." I was five.
She closed her eyes then,
and a single tear
cut through the slit in
her eyelashes.
When she opened her eyes
I saw her for maybe the first time
in my life.
They were blue pools,
and she seemed to exhale into herself.
I left my room then and
went through the kitchen drawers,
attempting to convince my
mother I was feeding the dog
we didn't own.
Antony
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