My mother was the most wonderful woman in the world. She stood tall, at around 5'8, and had beautiful caramel locks and deep warm chocolate eyes. Anyone who met her could sense her strength, as the independent woman she was. But she still carried around a motherly tone to her aura, she could make you feel cozy, loved, and at home with just the flash of a smile. She meant everything to me, she took care of me, she was my best friend. She provided me with everything. Up until I turned fifteen my life was wonderful. Perfect even. I had the most amazing life, thanks to my mother. She was the one who looked out for me, she cared for my wounds, and brushed away my tears. I distinctly remember my 6th birthday, a memory I hope to never forget. We were together in the kitchen, baking my birthday cake, well she was the one baking I was just licking the spoons. She had just taken the cake out of the oven, and the impatient little six year old I was wanted to taste it. You see, her baking was the best. Any and everything she attempted to make was always fantastic. And this cake was no different. I was on my tiptoes trying to get a glimpse of the cake, i was too short to really see the top of the stove, but I reached out my hand to get a closer look while her back was turned washing some of the dishes, and grabbed the pan, successfully burning my palm on the scalding dish. I cried out and fell to the floor. Before my eyes, my hand turned a violent shade of red and the pain immediately brought tears to my eyes. My outburst of noise startled her, and she jumped and turned towards me. The look in her eyes said everything in that moment. I could sense the pity, the love, the concern, i felt cared for as she lightly took my arm to the sink to check out my wound. Honestly, I would not have traded her for anything in the world. Loosing her hit me close to home.
Her name was Esme, it was really a beautiful name, and the way it rolled off my lips puts me at immediate comfort. But as all good things come, they must eventually end. It all started right after my fifteenth birthday, it used to be just us living in a quaint two story home in the country. I remember it clearly, it seemed grand and imposing from the outside. The wrap around porch we spent many a night on looking at the stars me and my mother. The white paint was old and peeling. The house sat atop a hill, a cliff more like. But it lay directly among a field, a field of tall and unkempt grass. If the light was right and the wind was blowing, one could mistake our lovely abode as an abandoned shack. But to us it was perfect. It was our house when my father was still with us. My father having went off to war and never coming back, it hurt us both a lot, but we had each other and we came out of it stronger than ever. Our bond grew out of his loss. I will always miss my father, as any daughter should, even though now my memories of him are few and far in between. But that was earlier, around 12, I think when he left us to fend for ourselves. Young memories fade, and all I have left of my father is a blurry face, or maybe it was even a dream. He was tall, with dark hair like my own, he was imposing, just like all the army folk. Yet, his face, his face was just not there. Almost like it was never there. Regardless, Esme got me through it, we lived in that house even after he died, and I think we never moved because it was her way of staying attached to my father, but I never questioned her.
Anyways, about three months after I turned fifteen things took a turn for the better. My mother got pregnant, she never told me when, why, or by whom, but I trusted her. It was an even to be celebrated! I was truly excited for the baby to come. The first few months were bliss, picking out the colors of the room. We painted it a light sky blue with yellow trimmings on the walls. We used the white crib that I had as a baby, it was perfect. I started to take a more authoritative role in the house, having to take care of my mother when she got morning sickness. I learned to cook quite fast too. I wanted to pamper Esme, I didn't want her to have to take care of the baby and myself. It was going to be awesome. The perfect little family. Just the three of us. But as time dragged on, well into six moths into the pregnancy, she started getting obsessed. Actually, I'm not really sure of it was her or me or a combination of both. But I started to grow quite impatient with Esme. All she could ever talk about was the baby. I on the other hand was getting sick and tired of it. I mean I was still her child too after all! All she could every think about was the little baby she was going to have. I mean I was still excited and all but after a while excitement wears off.
Esme started to change as well, she used to love going out doors and heading to the cliffs near the house on out property. She used to paint out there, the beautiful sunrises and sunsets. She would pack up her easel and paints and a snack, and enjoy what nature had to offer. She always said that her joy of painting was to capture mother nature of her canvas. But now she just stays curled up in the house worrying about the baby. Slowly but surely she started to forget about her fifteen (soon to be sixteen) year old daughter. She was just so preoccupied with the baby. I mean Esme was just one of those women who was put on this earth to be a mother, she absolutely adored children. Even when we used to go to the market together every little child she saw she would give a huge motherly smile to. and each and everyone of them would smile back, thats just the was Esme was. She loved the idea of taking care of someone. Soon enough the 8 month mark of her pregnancy rolled around, and complications arose. I called for the doctors because she was having early contractions. The baby was coming he said, but it was early, too early. She gave birth that frightful night. It was one of the most dreadful nights of my life. I was in the room the entire time and I saw the entire thing happen. It was a boy! The baby came out in the doctor's hands, but there was no noise, no crying, no anything. Dead silence filled the room. Esme was passed out, a thin layer of sweat covering her entire body, it was a hard labor for her. The Doctor looked at me with his sullen eyes, confirming my thoughts. The baby, if you could even call it that, looked so small and shriveled up. I stayed silent, even though i could feel the tears streaming down my face. I said nothing, what was there to even say anyway. And within five minutes, the baby was gone, a small sheet over its entire body, being taken to the morgue by the doctor. It wasn't long until my mother woke up again, and the Doctor told her what happened. I saw the shock in her eyes. And soon the lifelessness took over.
There was no sparkle left in her once beautiful brown eyes. Her caramel hair laid limp and dull. My mother was gone. The baby was supposed to be born that night, not die. We were supposed to celebrate life, not mourn death. We got back home and Esme was not the same person, she was no longer a mother. She hid in her room crying and crying. Her tears never stopped. I cried to with her the first week, but soon all my tears were shed. And I just watched her cry on. I tried to comfort her as much as i could, but i was just a mere child. I couldn't comprehend what it was like to loose a child. Every night she would wake up screaming from nightmares. And every night i would run to her bedside and try to coax her back to sleep. She would lay all day in bed. And when she wasn't in bed, she would go to the nursery. She sat in the rocking chair in the corner of the room and i could only imagine the images she tortured herself with, dreaming about what could have been. She worried me to no end. She slowly stopped eating. I had to practically force her to eat some days. And she ceased to sleep. This woman was unknown to me. She was pale, much to pale, her eyes were hollow, and she was loosing too much weight. SHe was practically dead on her feet. It had been a month. A long and torturous month. And then I decided that night I couldn't take it any more. I ran.
It didn't matter, she probably wouldn't have noticed my leaving anyways. She never came out of her room to check up on me before. But today was just so awful. It was the night of my seventeenth birthday and my own mother hadn't even acknowledge my own existence. She didn't recognize me. I ran. I was out past the fields and into the woods surrounding our house. Still clad in my nightgown I ran through the brush, I couldn't take it. The pain was immense. As I ran away, I cried. I cried for my mother, I cried for my father, I cried for the baby, and I cried for myself. It wasn't fair. None of this should have happened. It wasn't supposed to go this way. I kept running deeper into the woods, Esme taught me to treat nature as a safe haven of sorts, we spent may a day trekking through these woods and I knew I wouldn't get lost. I knew our property well enough. I headed straight for my favorite clearing. It was a place I used to go to when I was little, to just look at the stars. I haven't been here in over five years, since we got the news of my father. It was comforting. Like a dream. A place where I could imagine a different turn out to life, just look up at the stars and fantasize. I just laid down on the damp grass. I could feel the water soak into the silk of my nightgown, but I didn't care. The cold made me feel alive. Right here, right now, I felt better than I ever had in the past year. Everything was coming together in my mind. I could almost see the light at the end out the dark tunnel. And suddenly this warm feeling came through me and I knew, I knew that everything was going to be alright. You have to go down to come back up. I started to get up and go back home with my sudden epiphany. I finally reached a sense of peace, elation, almost absolute happiness. I started slowly walking towards the edge of the clearing. Ready for the warm comforts of my bed. When I heard something, the snap of a twig,
"And where do you think you're going" said a voice lurking in the shadows…