I loved her.
Did she love me?
Like a type-A student whose professor says on the first day of class: I don’t give any A’s, I yearned to earn her A-love. I wrote notes and drew pictures of little girls holding flowers and hearts, signed with x and o. I gave her hugs, kisses and hard-earned gifts. Sometimes all of my babysitting money went for drug store kitchen utensils she didn’t have and garage sale bowls with butterflies on them.
I danced, sang and skipped-to-my-lou. Here I am, here I am, over here. Waving, stomping, anything, everything…whilst nothing.
Dad didn’t lose his partner. Mum would never leave him. Identifying for mumwas being dad’s one and only. But dad found another partner all the same. This made mum feel low, shamed, and unpretty.
I stopped skipping-to-my-lou for mum. I hated that dad found another partner prettier than her. Mum was the prettiest.
She was sad, too. Sadder. She’d always been sad.
I started giving mum ideas on how to show me she loved me. I told her my dream of receiving a bulging stocking from Santa Claus on Christmas morning. Popcorn balls, candy canes, socks and ribbons stuffed to the hilt proclaiming: I love you, I love you!
Come Christmas morning, the stocking was empty save for a tiny, yellow, gumball-machine, smiley ring with rolling, black, beady eyes.
Mum was depressed. Everyone was depressed.
Dad’s darling was down too. He told her so-long, it’s been swell.
I’m an average, starving artist now. Mum has my finest pieces framed in her new house. I call mumoften and sit next to her in photos with my arm around her. I buy her clothes, brickerbrack, lunch, all the things she loves to have and do.
Love me, too?
B-, Try harder...
Thank you for Reading!
Love, Shelley
