Mama doesn't talk much, at least not to me.
She used to talk all the time. She would sing and hum. She always made pretty words and sounds. She had a voice that reminded me of water running over rocks.
It was my favorite sound.
She sounded even prettier whenever Papa came home. He didn't come home often, but she sounded prettier when she talked about him too. He made her glow and bubble with laughter and happiness.
I hate Papa.
Mama smiles when he is there, but as soon as the door closes behind him the smile hurts to look at. She continues to smile and talk the rest of the night. It's no longer pretty. It's broken and painful to listen to.
After I go to bed, she shatters.
I hear her make soft, whispery sounds. Then I hear her hiccuping and crying. Sad words and mumbled nothings can be heard throughout the night.
Mama can't fix herself.
Mama doesn't smile the rest of the week. She stays home, staring into a teacup or at the wall. She doesn't cook or clean. She doesn't hum.
She looks dead.
Over time, the week after turns into the month after. Then the months after. Then it's any time Papa is gone.
I learned how to take care of things.
Mama becomes forgetful. She misses birthdays and holidays. She can't remember promises. She ignores things that she doesn't want to deal with, disappointing or useless things.
She ignores me.
Sometimes Mama looks at me. Talks to me. Acknowledges me. Takes time to stop and see what is going on around her.
She doesn't like what she sees.
Mama's voice isn't so pretty anymore. It's sandpaper against metal. Razors down spines. Nails on a chalkboard. Roaring waterfalls unearthing boulders.
Papa hasn't visited in a long time.
I miss Mama being happy. Her laughter. Her endless energy. Her love. Her support.
My Mama is gone.
Papa took a piece of her every time he left. Carved out slivers of her heart. Burned away at her soul. Sucked out all the love she had to give. Then left her to collapse with no one but a useless boy to catch her.
I hate Papa.