My Mother’s Home
It takes a journey down thirteen rungs lining her esophagus
to reach my mother. Each rung representing a year since the day my father erected
his middle finger, said kiss my ass and slammed the door on his way out.
The same day her beloved K-nock (Don’t ask, I never understood the name.), a
Maine Coon of gross proportions, decided to depart this plane and dropped dead
on the living room floor. Allowing ample time for K-nock to display the last of
his nine lives, my mother cleaned his skeleton and mounted it onto the moist
wall: a shrine to unconditional, loyal love.
After my father’s departure, my mother doubled down on her
reality-resistance strength building exercises and, with lover-wrapped arms, embraced
victimhood. After which, she pronounced I. Will. Never. Get. Over. This.
And that’s when she went inward and downward.
In no haste, she props open her esophageal sphincter and goes
about the task of taking my childhood home down and down and down into her
darkness. There, with K-nock, she is surrounded by a collection of all the
things she wanted to do but didn’t get to do.
On my last visit the light dims with each passing rung and
the familiar drip-drop-drip of water fills my ears and dampens my clothes.
Refluxed food chunks tangle in my hair. I hear again, “I’m so glad you get
to blah blah blah.” Fill in the blah blahs with any and everything I get
to do.
Preparing to leave, I implore my refrain because everyone
deserves that one last chance, “Mom, please, come up into the light.”
She appeals with hers, “There’s plenty of light down here,”
and resumes listing all the gets she doesn’t get to do. It all
hits an off rhythm: drip-drop-drop-drip. The bile of her reflux that is my
poison is her nourishment.
