My memories of my mother are sparse and vague. I have been told she was a great beauty, by some, and a great whore, by others. They tell me I was too young to remember her, and that may have been so, but there is one moment I will always recall. I cling to the memories of my mother as if my life depended on it. Maybe it does. My sanity depends on it and so does my heart, and without either I am not living much at all.
I remember her dark, dark hair like midnight spun into rich thread, and her painfully beautiful green eyes. She was shining and beautiful, always immortalized in my mind. She had summoned me to her, Kat told me many years later that it was just after she had been found guilty, I tumbled into her chambers in the way of a child of two would, on rather unsteady legs. She was crumpled upon the floor, struggling to breathe, but not crying yet, I recall how her face softened as she saw me and drew me near.
I felt her tremble as she buried her face in my hair, I didn't know at the time what was happening but I looked at her merrily as if nothing was amiss, "mama!" the words tumbled clumsily out of my mouth; speech was a new talent of mine. She pulled her face back to look at me fully, perhaps trying to memorize my face, only then did her tears fall starting with a sob that wracked her petite frame, crystalline tears glided over flawless alabaster cheeks. I hugged her close again, not sure of the cause of her grief but assuredly wanting it over.
"Elizabeth," She began but never finished as she keeled over in a fit of sobs. No more words were said to me, the nursemaid tore me from her arms to return me to me chambers, I was swept into someone's arms as I looked back at my mother, reaching my chubby limbs towards her. She extended her palm across the floor, a despaired plea for me to be returned to her. "Elizabeth." She choked out again as the doors to her chambers were shut behind me, her pained voice rung in my ears. Sometimes, if I shut my eyes tight enough and pull a cushion over my ears, I can still hear it clear as a bell, begging, pleading for me to stay with her.
I cling to the memories of my mother as if my life depended on it. Maybe it does.