Mornings With My Mother
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"As you will see, my relationship with mother was, sadly, not smooth sailing. Now that she is gone, I see things with contemplation that I never saw before....BUT we cannot wipe memories away, they are not tears." - Allen Ansell Like many other mornings with my mother I awoke with a nervous stomach fearful for what this day would bring. Rarely was the verbal assault, on my ears, continued past the hour of midnight. Instead she bore the offensive lance of being completely incommunicative - her silence borne like a perpetual greivance for the childhood wounds I had inflicted. On this particular morning I recall, I contemplated ending my life. (Obviously I never did the dreadful deed but at each jousting, such as this, yesterday, the concept of suicide strengthened became more contemplative.) At the time I had not a single clue of what exactly was going on in her head; how did she feel, how much anger and hate did she really have, there inside of her? What I feared as I finally arose from bed was how she had painted yesterday's event to my father - long since gone to work. The days that have accumulated since then have robbed me of the precise memory of what it was that created the situation. Very rarely, in truth, did I have guilt for my part in these recurring spats. This one though, and the sickness I felt throughout the ensuing day, was m-e-m-o-r-a-b-l-e. Memorable too, in the evening that followed, was the slap across my face my Father bestowed. I can still feel how it momentarily caused my world to shudder and blank deep, deep, inside my head. That a child could cause such disturbance in the ether of our family habitation is quite an anathema in my memorabilia: I am sickened in my belly just sitting here expelling some of the sense of injustice I felt, through my loved medium of words. Ah, but time allows the memory's skin to shed the scabs and scars of wounds! But though it's skin is soft and smooth my memory maintains, and the events of that day cannot be unseen, unfelt, or forgotten. Such is the uneven path of life we live that the stones beneath our soles that bite are the the ones remembered most. The skill, I have not yet fully learned, is how to absolutely fill those pains and craters with everlasting love. © Allen Ansell 2023
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