A Mothers Love

“I will never leave you or forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5)


His eyes were closed, shining brown eyes hidden from the world, from her. Light sandy curls dusted his forehead, as a small gusty sigh heaved his tiny chest. She pressed her lips to his nose adoringly and whispered “I will never leave you or forsake you. Goodnight my baby boy...”

His eyes were squinted, tanned cheeks ruddy with embarrassment as he stood awkwardly for her to kiss him. His small superhero backpack dangling heavy from one hand as he anxiously shifted lite-up sneaker clad feet. Before she pulled away she whispered in his ear “ I will never leave you or forsake you, I love you little man.” and watched as he shot off to school, belatedly yelling “Love you too mommy!” over his shoulder.

His eyes were pitifully bright as he lay in bed, bemoaning the evils of his stomach and the exaggerated coughs that shook his preteen body. Shoulders slumping with a groan as she smiled and leaned in to kiss him on the forehead “I will never leave you or forsake you, my brilliant baby boy. Now get up and go to school, the test wont be that bad.”

His eyes were dull, the shadows underneath them dark with the bruises of sleepless nights. His steps zombie like as he stumbled through the kitchen in search of toast and peanut butter. Barely noticing her until she stopped him just before the door when she bent his neck to kiss him on the forehead before saying “I will never leave you or forsake you, I love you my son. Have a good day.” Then watching as he grunted before starting his car and headed off to what she hopes is school.

His eyes are slightly panicked as he paces the room before the alter. His now dark curled hair slick against his skull. Nerves running rampant in his brain and making his now grown hands shake. His fear makes him talk fast, fevered phrases until she finally stops him and kisses him on the cheek, tears welling in her eyes as she speaks calmly to him. “Your going to be fine. She loves you and as long as you love her you will be fine.” She listens as he interrupts her, but what if he needs help, he doesn't think he wants to leave her alone. So she stops him again “I will never leave you or forsake you, now get in there and be with the one you love.”

His eyes are warm, chocolate irises focused on the tiny life in his arms. She watches as he falls head over heels in love with his newborn daughter, just like she did with him. A warm smile on her face and tears of happiness dampening her now aged cheeks as he rocks her to sleep, kissing her on the nose and she hears him whisper in a voice so sweet. “I will never leave you or forsake you, Goodnight my baby girl.”

Coma

There was nothing. No semblance of structure, it simply didn’t exist. It didn’t matter. Not to those who were deaf to the very idea of the word. Those blinded into a false and sickly twisted tar filled world. Color was a luxury. Sound a gift. Taste a myth. Feeling was a lie. The entire world was dead; to him at least. Bitterly reminiscent of a vague screen draped across his forgotten mind. It was intangibly heavy, so easy to ignore, to forget. Exempt of one thing. There was an irritating irrational itch, somewhere. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t reach it, and could never hope to identify it. Yet it was driving him insane. There, behind the screen. He sensed it. Like some dark mimicry of hope, a skewed mockery of a dream. It was taunting him, daring him to lift the barrier between his secluded hell, and the illusion of freedom.
It terrified him. That alone, made him move, the one emotion that so vehemently defied his personality, made him desperate to prove it wrong. Driven by some unnamed determination, he pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion, and then, again, forced his way past it. The blistering fire of his resolve set his nightmare aflame. Lighting the screen in color, his chance had come. He placed strong hands against the barrier and shoved; the exertion forcing his muscles to bulge and sweat to pour off overheated skin. Then after a seeming eternity, with a final guttural yell he lifted the screen.


A small whimper escaped his lips, the index finger of his right hand twitched. Incrementally small, it would have been unnoticed if someone hadn’t been holding that hand. A moment passed, thick with stress as he slowly lifted up his heavy eye lids to take in the figure by his side. The annoying sound of the heart monitor filling the silence as he automatically took notice of the tear stains on her face. He could tell that this time she had almost given up. This time she had almost given in to them, the white coated of little faith. The ones with letters lined up uselessly behind their names. Her voice told him he was hospitalized. She used words like blood, coma, brain, and ‘the doctors said”.
He was so tired. All he wanted was to sleep, but he knew he had to do this one thing first. Otherwise he would never get any rest. His voice was like sandpaper as it grated against his throat. “Doctors don’t know anything.” With that he reclaimed her hand in his and fell into the sweet confines of sleep once more. Oblivious to the smirk that graced his face, and of the hell he had no memory of.

The Child

The girl was staring stoically out the hospitals unshaded window. The shadows of rain drops running across her drawn pallor, like a projection on a movie screen. Her pale hands, too small-too thin

, were folded in the thick white blanket pulled over her lap. Fingers lost in the folds of the graying fabric. She did not move from her position. As the hour wore on only the occasional blinking of bruised eyelids and the barely-there movement of her chest , breathing in the sickly still air, proved she was more than a mere statue. Her brown hair hung lank, lifeless

, from her emaciated skull. The very picture of a forsaken soul, the embodiment of a broken spirit: Too young to be so old.
How-how could this have happened

, this is the thought that is so prominent in the minds of all who see her. Sitting still, like a caged doll, fragile and eerily small, so breakable-no-so shattered

, the thought that never crosses their mind is the truth. She never asks “How?”or “Why me?”

no, not even in her mind. She never thinks the way they think she does, because she knows

that it will make no difference. She understands this so well that the thought of it all never really phases her. No, not even when she stares into the small bathroom mirror as she washes her hands. Not when she sees the purple-black tinged rings under her eyes, the ghost paleness of her cheeks, ~Casper the friendly ghost~

, the odd light in her eyes that no child should ever be experienced enough to know.
But she does know. She knows oh so very well, the things that make that look. That dazed, empty, soulless, dead

, yet so very, very

, focused look that speaks of great trauma. She doesn’t see it that way. She has never thought of it that way. How could she? She has other things to worry about. Things that she knows she will remember with that hazy clouded

difficulty that comes from the way her mind protects itself. The way some parts are quite literally so fuzzy in her mind that the colors all meld together like melted wax, and how some parts of her memory will be so frighteningly clear

that she knows she could never forget them. She doesn’t want

to forget them. These memories that are so terrifying, scary

, that the mere imagining of them makes her heart beat pitter faster, her breath quicken just enough that she can feel the adrenaline alive in her veins. But, they are her memories

, they are her life

, her record

, they have shaped her into the person she is now. That person who is her only control in a world where she has none. She finds herself oddly protective of the person she is, no-more oddly-possessive

…of who she is now. Even if that person is empty, and so unbelievably tired

, even if that person is sick. She knows what she wants to be.
The metal jingling of the pink cloth curtain being pulled back reaches her ears. Different from the sounds of the soft wuff wuff wuff

that echoes in the air vent above her or the slight plip

of water hitting the glass of her window. She turns her head to look at the person standing in her “doorway”, waiting for them to speak. It is a man, that she will recall when she looks back on it later, and he is staring at her. His eyes are guarded, she thinks, wondering what that actually means. There are words there, written in his eyes, but she cannot read them. Honestly, she doesn’t really try. The man, he is tall

, fidgets as he feels the piercing focus of her eyes,shivering,

he is cold. This room is so lifeless

, grey, plain, how long-how long has she been here-how long has she looked like that- does it matter?- it should.

That is why he is here, to bring her some life back.
He says her name, “Are you…”

, and smiles as she nods her head yes. He puts down a brightly colored board, littered with vibrant ribbons, the loose folds all holding notes: Messy notes, neat notes, stickers and pictures, Crayola and pen, all of them woven carefully into the ribbons grasp,

and a small fuzzy green frog, the frog is smiling, loving, arms just begging to be cuddled, a brilliant red ribbon tied around its arm with a note emblazoned with “Get Well Soon!” and happy faces

. Placing them both at the foot of her bed so she can see them and reach them if she wants. Then steps back to watch as magic happens.
Watches as her cheeks flush with joyful color, her pale lips spread in a small smile, her arm reaching across the pale expanse of her bed and hug the frog almost desperately to herself. Then when she looks up at him again she speaks, hoarsely but still

, her voice cracking with gratitude, and he see’s the true magic that has happened.
Her eyes are alive.
“Thank You.”

Impressum

Texte: Any similarities to any real life people or events is purely coincidental.
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 22.11.2011

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