It feels like forever by the time I’m able to pull away, and I only do when she somehow produces a tissue and wipes down my face. It makes me want to cry harder because I never liked being this way with Mama, even if I dreamed of her comfort.
Where were you then, Mama?
I needed you.
I choke down the words because they mean nothing now. Not when Mama is here and holding me and comforting me and being the woman I want her to be. I left her like Kaiden said, but only because she needed me gone.
>
Kaiden is wrong though.
I need Mama more than she needs me.
“I don’t want to forget.” I hiccup and glance at all the empty space in the room. “I don’t want to forget her, Mama.”
Her eyes glisten and the familiar tone of gold breaks through. There’s anguish and something more, something deeper. Guilt.
“You will never forget her,” she whispers, brushing the pad of her thumb across my cheek.
Grandma walks back in holding a large leather book. She passes it to Mama who opens it slowly and smiles at the contents. When she turns it to me, my heart dances.
It’s a photo album of Lo.
Of all the pictures…
I look at Mama and wonder how I got to the conclusion that has made me doubt her so much. When I think of her, I think of her sadness, reclusion, and brokenness. I don’t see the woman who sang to me or baked me cookies because I was sad or told me how much she loved me because she could.
I’ve judged her.
Criticized her.
Wondered why she let me leave.
She knew you’d be better off…
“You put them in an album,” is my quiet response. It isn’t a question, just a surprised statement.
Did Mama know how I felt about her?
Another tear falls.
“Baby,” she whispers.
I close my eyes.
Mama falls asleep next to me in my bed that night, holding me and combing her fingers through my hair. The notion hurts, but I don’t tell her that my scalp aches or that I wince every time her nails get caught and tugs. I try to remember what it felt like before the pain. It comforted me. Lulled me. Eased me.
When we wake up in the morning, she sees the hair on my pillow first.
Her lips part.
Her eyes widen.
She whispers, “Not again.”
She chokes on tears and fear and worry as she sits up and stares at the chunk of hair resting beside me on the cotton pillowcase. Her eyes can’t travel anywhere else.
“Not again, Logan.”