My mother died when I was six. I’d be lying if I said I thought about her from time to time. In all honesty, she only crosses my mind when I have nothing else to think about. I’m not a horrid person or anything. It’s just that I don’t really know what to think about her. Some parts of her are still alive I guess, stored away in the chambers of Edmond’s basement. Being lavished in dust particles and the few spiders he managed to overlook. Other parts of her live outdoors. Like the lemon tree we planted in the yard for her 40th birthday when she complained about the somber view from her bedroom. Or the tombstone rotting away with the roses Simon gathered last week. I’d like to think that she lives among us. I really would. I’d like to pretend that I see her watching over us through the clouds and hear her laughter through the breeze. It’s not true though.
When I was thirteen, I snuck out while Edmond was asleep on the couch, draped in booze and cigarette ashes. I didn’t really go anywhere. If I’m to be completely honest, I only went a couple blocks down to see the Rosenberg’s. I’m pretty sure it classified as borderline stalking, but I loved their family. And it wasn’t my fault their living room window had an extraordinary view. All five of them huddled on one couch, laughing and laughing their heads off at some stupid sitcom on TV. Even though I refused to admit it out loud, I was jealous. I wanted what they had. And it hurt even more knowing that I could never have it. I returned home in an hour, the clock reading seven pm. I needed to make dinner for Simon, yet Edmond was awake and insisted on doing it himself. I had lost the courage to argue with him at some point. I sat at the dining table as he cooked practically the only thing he knows how to: eggs and bacon. Mom’s pictures were attached to the refrigerator, on the verge of falling off due to the ancient magnets. I made a mental note to add them to the shopping list.
By the time I turned seventeen, Edmond had lost his will to take care of me and Simon. I had wished I was allowed to fend for myself ever since my mother died, but I eventually realized it was a bold statement considering I really don’t know how to. I took the responsibility of taking care of Simon into my arms. He’s the only person I’ve ever genuinely loved and cared for. While, the only person that’s still alive. It hurt me that he couldn’t have the childhood he truly deserved. One day, we had been sitting on our roof the night of Christmas Eve. I felt guilty because I’d never really told him what Christmas was. I just said it’s a religious holiday, and it didn’t apply to us because we were Atheist. It was complete bullshit because I had celebrated Christmas when I was his age. Mother would adore me with millions of gifts, taking the risk of stealing money out of Edmond’s pocket. I didn’t have the heart to tell Simon about it and not be able to give him anything. I wasn’t brave enough to do what mom used to, so I just pretended the holiday never existed.
I’m twenty one now. I don’t have many friends, if I’m going to be completely honest. A lot of people think I’m either a bastard or a sociopath. I don’t bother disagreeing because every once in a while I’m sure they’re right.
I hate my mother sometimes. It was really selfish of her to go. And it was really selfish of whoever sits above to take her. It’s like they just picked a lemon out of the tree before it was even ripe.
I often avoid thinking about my mother, because I end up hating her when I do.