The day I found our townhouse empty had
been a relatively quiet one. I spent the morning at the park, 12-years old,
spinning on the merry-go-round and balancing on railroad ties. Trains rarely
came through, but the feel of the wrought-iron pressing in to the soles of my
shoes sent signals up to my brain remind me that I was, in fact, Wonderwoman.
I was brave enough to defy death; nothing could bring me to my knees in
this world.
I stepped, one foot in front of the other, ears perked for the rattling of an engine. At which point, if it ever did happen, I would lunge off the track and crash into the dirt, rolling myself to safety in a mire of dust. I was brave like that, always testing fate and silently screaming back at the world that I was invincible.
We resided in the upper part of the town house. There was a shabby aluminum door on the right that opened to a flight of stairs that led to where my mother and I lived.
I skipped up every other stair, counting under my breath, "1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13!"
"Ma?" I called. "Ma, you here?"
No one answered.
The birds chirped outside our perfectly clean windows and the leaves that hung from the trees outside were bright and green, a reminder that new life was everywhere.
I made my way to my mother's room, which was strewn with panty hose. This was not completely out of the ordinary. Sunday mornings were hell. Whenever we would be getting ready for church, she could be heard yelling, "Goddamn it! I don't have one fucking pair of panty hose without a run in them. Now I'm not going to fucking be able to go to church!" These words, oh, these words made me grin and my chest expand as I hated sitting through that service every Sunday. And that, my friends, is exactly why I had been at the park balancing on railroad tracks instead of eating the blessed body and blood of our Lord. It was exactly the reason why I was kicking up dirt at the park next door instead of listening to what a sinner I was and how I was going to burn in hell for all eternity if I didn't believe what I was told.
That part never really made sense to me. It kind of felt like me telling a blind person that the sky was blue. And although that person had no concept of blue, couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel it—being told that if they didn’t grasp it, they were going to be burned to a crisp in a sea of fire—because they just couldn’t wrap their heads around that concept. Like death was a suitable punishment for not understanding something. It all just felt a little too threatening for my taste.
I looked over to my mother's closet and there was a single pair of panty hose fashioned in to a noose in a frenzy of hangers. If I had to tell the story of my mother, Sarah Davey’s disappearance, which I suppose is what I’m doing right now, I would tell you that my mother had spent the morning searching for a pair of stockings. I would tell you that amidst a torrent of four-letter words, she had told me just to take my ass to the park because it was another day we would not be spending with our beloved Savior because she couldn’t find a fucking thing to wear. Those were the things I knew. The part I didn’t know was that as I tested my strength on the monkey-bars, my mother was losing her ever-loving mind.
The noose was there, but she was not, which was kind of the good part of the story, but also the mystery. She had the wherewithal to make such a contraption, but seemingly, grew tired of the whole damn thing and just walked out. The whole damn thing being life.
I stepped, one foot in front of the other, ears perked for the rattling of an engine. At which point, if it ever did happen, I would lunge off the track and crash into the dirt, rolling myself to safety in a mire of dust. I was brave like that, always testing fate and silently screaming back at the world that I was invincible.
We resided in the upper part of the town house. There was a shabby aluminum door on the right that opened to a flight of stairs that led to where my mother and I lived.
I skipped up every other stair, counting under my breath, "1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13!"
"Ma?" I called. "Ma, you here?"
No one answered.
The birds chirped outside our perfectly clean windows and the leaves that hung from the trees outside were bright and green, a reminder that new life was everywhere.
I made my way to my mother's room, which was strewn with panty hose. This was not completely out of the ordinary. Sunday mornings were hell. Whenever we would be getting ready for church, she could be heard yelling, "Goddamn it! I don't have one fucking pair of panty hose without a run in them. Now I'm not going to fucking be able to go to church!" These words, oh, these words made me grin and my chest expand as I hated sitting through that service every Sunday. And that, my friends, is exactly why I had been at the park balancing on railroad tracks instead of eating the blessed body and blood of our Lord. It was exactly the reason why I was kicking up dirt at the park next door instead of listening to what a sinner I was and how I was going to burn in hell for all eternity if I didn't believe what I was told.
That part never really made sense to me. It kind of felt like me telling a blind person that the sky was blue. And although that person had no concept of blue, couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel it—being told that if they didn’t grasp it, they were going to be burned to a crisp in a sea of fire—because they just couldn’t wrap their heads around that concept. Like death was a suitable punishment for not understanding something. It all just felt a little too threatening for my taste.
I looked over to my mother's closet and there was a single pair of panty hose fashioned in to a noose in a frenzy of hangers. If I had to tell the story of my mother, Sarah Davey’s disappearance, which I suppose is what I’m doing right now, I would tell you that my mother had spent the morning searching for a pair of stockings. I would tell you that amidst a torrent of four-letter words, she had told me just to take my ass to the park because it was another day we would not be spending with our beloved Savior because she couldn’t find a fucking thing to wear. Those were the things I knew. The part I didn’t know was that as I tested my strength on the monkey-bars, my mother was losing her ever-loving mind.
The noose was there, but she was not, which was kind of the good part of the story, but also the mystery. She had the wherewithal to make such a contraption, but seemingly, grew tired of the whole damn thing and just walked out. The whole damn thing being life.
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