She was the wilted flower trying to heal, but got lost in the shade. Sometimes I can still smell her. And the way the cigarette smoke smelled on her skin, and the rose scented candles she loved to burn.
My mother was a survivor. She was filled with her own madness and sadness but even I will never know what it's like to lose a younger sister at the hands of another. She was a survivor.
She was one of the lucky ones. One that got away, to breathe the fresh country air. To live with the promise of a new day while carrying the heavy, cemented pain of the city that broke her.
My mother had no clue how to love me. Or any of us. Although she tried.
I never saw her cry; not until the day Papa died. Her strength puddled like her tears, and I loved her for that. I loved her even when I didn't know who she was.
My mother pushed me away. Over and over. A child begging for love. But she kept the picture of the horse I drew for her when I was a child, until the day she died.
My mother was too young to get sick. But it was more than that. It was the pain she carried with her through the seasons of her life. But still, she was a survivor. Until she wasn't anymore.
My mother nurtured her houseplants and loved her cat. She loved hanging photographs on the wall.
I miss her. Everyday.
My mother died a year ago today. She was 50.
My mother was complex; and so am I. Beautifully flawed and undeniably sad.