Raspberries

The snowflakes caught in her eyelashes.  They seemed to make her eyes look sunken.  When had she become so frail?
Her spindly arms reached out for my own, and when I took her hand I felt how dappled her skin felt.
How long had it been?
Years.  Many years.
I remember running in her backyard.  I use that term loosely.  She had this little cottage-- very homey.  Quilts everywhere.  Cats.  And the smell... of contentment.  It was a well lived in home.
But the home itself was not the cottage, it was the garden-- or yard.
Filled with fresh strawberries, watermelon, apple trees, vegetables such as cucumbers, lettuce, turnips, onions.  It was endless.  But there was one favourite. The raspberries.
She would come out with us, and we would pick basket fulls.  Eat them while we were picking.  Then we would make jams with some of it, but eat most of them with a bit of cream.
If there is a heaven, this would be my own.  She was so quiet but soulful.  She always seemed to look old.  I know that sounds bad, but what I mean is she looked old at sixty and she looked old at seventy.  She was just ageing not so... gracefully.
She started having problems as we grew.  Harder to walk.  Harder to think.  Harder to remember.
For years... I had not seen her.
I heard stories of how racist she was.  How she had a foul mouth.  But every time I spoke to her, or listened to her, it was like honey.
Sweet, sincere.
My mum started telling me she was ill.  Every time she was mentioned I thought I was going to be told she had passed.
This went on for a few years.
She moved in with my grandma.  She was cared for.  But she slowly got worse.  See, when people lose their memory they can become easily frightened or confused.
She would get severely confused and that came with severe anger.
She was moved to a home.
I visited her.
I visited her five times.
The first time I remember seeing her with tears in my eyes.  She didn't say my name once.  I brought up my brother but she just nodded and smiled.  I knew she didn't know.
The second time we walked around.  She was calling me my brother's name.
The third time was short.  She was severely confused.  I barely got to tell her I loved her.
The fourth time she was quite tired.  She lay in bed while I read.
The fifth time, I walked in, knowing this would be the last time I visited.  I didn't want to feel heartbroken every time I left.  I didn't want to see her anymore.
I walked into the room and her eyes brightened as she exclaimed my name clearly, hugged me, and told me she loved me so much.  How much I had grown.  How beautiful I was.  She asked how my brother was, and we were able to speak.  I saw her drifting away, so I told her I loved her and we embraced.  Then I walked back to the car with my mum and as she drove I felt cold tears fall from my face in silence.
A month or so passed.
So had she.
I didn't cry.
I haven't cried yet.
Even writing it, I feel them in the back of my eyes.
I don't feel heartless-- I did at first.
But, maybe I am not crying because she is willing me not to.
Because we are still picking raspberries.
Because I'm still a five year old little girl, naive with what is to come and what has happened.
Because the snowflakes that fell in her eyes were not in fact snow, but ashes from the fires we had.
Because the snowflakes were just my imagination, just like many other day dreams have been.
And it is okay if you don't understand what I am talking about, because I do.
I still feel her soft skin.
I see her bright blue veins.
I see how spindly she is.
I see how loving she was.
I see red.
I see raspberries.

Birthdays.

Growing up, I used to think about my birthday always.  I would watch shows and movies and be in awe about how caring and loved a person could be on their birthday.  Plus there was one thing that I fantasized about.
Surprise parties.
What says 'We all love you so much and wanted to surprise you to make you feel bombarded with love' better than a surprise party itself?
And every year I would pick up hints like, "Let's go out for the day and just have a nice quiet evening at home." And of course, people not mentioning my birthday at all.
So for the entire day I would get so excited about a possible surprise party, only to feel crushed to see that there was no one.
And every year, that hope had lessened ever so slightly.
My brother's birthday and my own are a month a part, so we would go on vacation in the summer and a month after my own birthday we would celebrate both of our birthdays. But it would be on his birthday.
And my young little self always felt so defeated and sad on this day.  Because it wasn't like the shows or movies.
You see, I loved seeing people picking out these heart-filled gifts for people without having to ask the question "What do you want for your birthday?"
Because when people ask that it feels like a jab in the heart.
They don't know you.
They don't care to put thought into the gift.
All of these thoughts just jumble together and make the sad day a depressing day.
I wouldn't want to get out of bed on my birthday.  Not because of growing older, but because of how isolated and lonely I felt.
How I feel.
I love other people's birthday's.  I enjoy picking out a gift for them and celebrating with them.
But it's never happened to me.
The go to is a dinner out.
I don't like going out for dinner.
Yet every year it's the same "Where do you want to go for dinner?"
And the worst thing about this day?
How incredibly selfish I feel.
Because saying all these things seem awful to me because that isn't who I am.  Yet obviously it is because these are my feelings about it.
So it makes me feel like shit.
With telling people how I feel about my birthday, whether I say I just want something they put thought into (or even just hanging out.  I really like being with my friends) or saying I don't want to go out for dinner (in which they get sad and don't know how to respond), they do comply.
They'll say, "What do you want to do then?"
And the most horrible thing is I don't know.
If I were to say a surprise party, it would 1. not be a surprise and 2. I would feel depressed then too because I brought it up.  Not them.
So maybe television warped my views on birthdays.
I just want today to end and not talk about my birthdays anymore.

A Thought

I have always been told I am "Pretty cute" or "Pretty pretty."
And I have been told "You're pretty but..." and then have them drift off without finishing their thought.
As I grew up I always wondered why it was just "Cute" or "pretty".
Why was the glass so close to being full, but so far away?
Why wasn't no matter what I did make a person say I was something rather than partially something?
I still don't know.
And I probably won't.

Why

He walked down the stairs cautiously.  He didn't want to wake his mother.  Each step he took left a permanent scream in his ears, and the only thought was the door, make it to the door. 
But by the time he reached the main floor, and began shrugging on his coat, he lifted his keys out of the small metal bowl that sat on a shelf.
He winced.
He had to leave.
He had to leave.
He had to leave.
He heard shuffling upstairs, and he lurched to the doorknob, his clammy hands slipping on the chilled metal handle.  He couldn't breathe, oh god he couldn't breathe; his chest was tight, his collar was hurting him, he was sweating.
Why wasn't the door opening?
Why wasn't the door opening?
Why wasn't the door opening?
"Kyle?"
He froze.
The hairs on his neck stiffened.
His arms ached.
"Kyle?  Where are you going?"
His back was turned, but he could sense her on the top stair boring her sickly gaze into his shoulders, his back, his legs, his... everything.
"Kyle?"
Steps.
He heard her stepping down.
"Kyle, you have to answer me.  You know I don't like you leaving the house.  This is why I home-school you.  You aren't a very good student, Kyle."
She was behind him.
His fingers kept slipping away from the knob, and panic struck his chest again.
"Kyle?"  Her voice was a whisper, but she was so close, it was so loud.  He felt her fingers run up his spine and his gut twisted with disgust, filth.  He felt filthy.
Finally his grip on the doorknob steadied as he yanked the door open.
"Kyle."  Ice.  Her voice was ice. "Close the door, Kyle."
He slowly began closing it.
"Turn around, Kyle."
He slowly began turning around.
There he faced his mother.  Who was two feet shorter than him.  Who had such small features that she seemed harmless.  This wasn't the woman from before.  This couldn't be the woman from before.
But then she kissed him on the cheek.
And then on the mouth.
And his reality crashed into his lungs as he struggled to get away.  But it was too late.  Last night happened.  He couldn't stop her.
This wasn't right.
This wasn't right.
This wasn't right.
______________________________________________________________________________

He walked down the stairs cautiously.  He didn't want to wake his mother.  Each step he took left a permanent scream in his ears, and the only thought was the door, make it to the door. 
But by the time he reached the main floor, and began shrugging on his coat, he lifted his keys out of the small metal bowl that sat on a shelf.

To My Mother

I don't know when I started to see you hurting so much.
I remember when I was younger, I would be downstairs with your best friend's daughters, and I don't remember you sitting with us.
I don't remember you coming downstairs smiling, in a soft t-shirt with a nice pair of jeans, nor do I remember you wanting to go out much.
But I remember your door being closed a lot, and when you'd come out you'd try to smile and pull my head to your lips.
I remember how you used to make me and my brother that hamburger helper almost every night because you couldn't cook.
I remember you gaining weight, then suddenly losing all of it.
I remember feeling the waves of sadness that you radiated, even though you would wear that red lipstick to emphasize your smiles.
But I didn't realize when I was younger that you were sad.
I was used to coming home to a babysitter, or staying at a friend's house.
I was used to not seeing you very often.
It felt normal.
And I wasn't mad at you for it.
When people asked me what was going on with my mum I would say
"She's sleepy, is all."
Or
"She's had a long few days."
But they weren't a few days.
They were years.
Mum, you've suffered for years.
And I didn't know when I was younger that you were depressed.
I didn't know until recently that you were sick.
I didn't know that it took you the majority of your living life to get the help you deserved.
And I am so, incredibly, terribly sorry that my younger self couldn't see.
I am so, incredibly sorry that even now I can't help you very much because we're trying to push each other up when we end up pushing each other down.
And I am so, terribly sorry that I make you worry.
I just--
God.
I just, I care so much that my heart hurts.
And I care so much that I can't not cry while I'm trying to explain what I've been wanting to say.

I remember,
when I was around fourteen or fifteen, when you told me about how depressed you got.
How you wanted to hang yourself.
But you couldn't because you know I would be the one to find you there, lifeless.
And you knew that would shatter me.

I remember,
when I told you about what happened
very recently,
and the fact that I had been living with the information for four-five years
and you began crying.

I remember so much, mum.
I am so sorry for so much.

And I 'm sorry for when I get such low energy, and such a low mood, that the few times we see each other,
I'm not really there.
It isn't you, mum.
It's my head.
It's my emotions.
It's the pressure in my chest.
That I've placed on myself.
That I inadvertently placed on myself.

I just need to say that I love you.
I love dad too... but I can't talk about him now.
Just like I can't talk about my brother.

Because we keep bruising each other,
whereas whenever my mood gets low around them,
it's like they're wearing a bullet proof vest, allowing my bullets to ricochet.
Our bullets don't ricochet.

The Little Mud in Life

When she was young, she tied her hair up away from her face.
His hair was trimmed but messy as he ran through the field with his friends.
She carried a colouring book to the swings, laughing with her older sister.
As she tried matching the blue sky to her picture, her sister pushed her gently.
He was slipping in the mud and yelling at his mates, screaming with joy.
But he slipped too close to the swings, and kicked up some mud onto her.
Her white stocking were wrecked, and the picture she worked on wasn't able to be seen.
Her sister started yelling,
He tried to apologize,
She didn't say anything,
and then the bell rang.
All the students scurried inside, trying not to be late.
But the boy stayed behind to try to wipe the mud off the swing.
The girl wasn't angry, just embarrassed that she was so dirty.
She was sent to the washroom to clean up, but on her way she saw through the window that the boy was using his water bottle to clear the mud from the swings.
She blinked a few times before walking into the bathroom.  She opened the closet full of cleaning supplies and grabbed the bucket and sponge.
She filled it up with soap and some water, but when she got to the swings there was no sight of him.
When she was about to turn away, she heard a slapping noise behind her.  To her feet were a pair of mucky black running shoes.  Her confusion was short, because after she saw them, she looked up.  At the top of the swing set was the boy, and in his hand was one of his socks as he was scrubbing the post.
She called for him to come down, but he resisted.
Finally, she soaked the sponge and threw it at him.  A squishy splat echoed in the air, and a large, oval, damp shape cloaked his navy t-shirt.
He was stunned for a moment, and both the boy and girl watched the sponge squish back onto the gravel.
He hopped down, and asked her what she was doing out of class.
She didn't speak, but pulled falling strands away from her eyes.  She reached down for the sponge and began cleaning his runners.
They didn't speak for a while, but cleaned the mess around them.
He put on his shoes bare-footed as she tried getting the mud out of her stockings.
And when they walked into the school again, they went into their own classrooms.
They didn't see each other again, for he played soccer when he was older while she drew.
But when they passed each other, he thought of her ruined stockings while she thought of his shoes.
And they went their ways.