“Mamma…?”
He peeks in through the crack of the door, the room left ajar except the bed, a rug and a machine beep-beep-beeping away the seconds of life she had left.
“Mamma?” He whispers.
His voice barely audible, tip-toeing over her, his fingers tentatively stroking her wrist, to her shoulders and her face. Worn and wrinkled, soft. Each line, each crease telling its own story – a testament to her life, what she loved, what she lost. All visible in her smile lines, all visible in the lines on her forehead. Joy, worry, anguish, happiness. Everything laid out bare.
“Mamma?” She hadn’t heard that in over twenty years.
Her eyes – once used to be a brilliant hazel. They were bewitching and full of mischief as a young girl. Seductive and inviting as a lover. Warm – like honey, when she became a mother. Now, were pale – she developed cataracts. Probably to shield her from what her life had become.
“Mamma.” He caught himself. He held back his sob.
This woman – the very vessel that brought him into this world, now a shell of her former self. There was still a delicate beauty about her though. A crushed flower. A fallen leaf.
She never did forgive him. He was a rebellious teen – full of angst. He said things that he probably shouldn’t have said but, she always used to forgive him. This time, the rage was too much. It tipped them both over the edge.
It was ironic that, though they bought thought they were completely different, they couldn’t have been more similar; he had her eyes, her sense of humor, her wit. But they also shared the same stubbornness, pride and ego. Neither one willing to back down
When he was 18 they had a cataclysmic row – so much so that he decided to pack up and leave, without a sound, without a peep. Neither of them knew that the next time they’d see each other was twenty years later on her death bed. Both of them just as adamant as each other. Both of them holding onto every last ounce of pride they had. Forgoing all advice from family, friends and acquaintances to “just try again”, “she is your mother after all”.
He made a great name for himself, he became the manager of a decent company. Had a great car, a great wife. Wonderful kids who grew up to be just like their mother, thankfully.
They often asked him if he had a mother, to which he always replied “yes but, she lives far away”.
A five-hour plane ride isn’t that far at all.
The machine stopped, and so did their hearts- hers out of fatigue, his out of sorrow.
Nothing could have prepared him for the animal-like sounds coming from deep within him. He howled in grief.
“Mamma please” he whispers frantically – his voice hoarse.
He held her frail hand – getting colder by the second.
“Mamma I’m sorry”
She left him alone, just as he had left her twenty years earlier.
Without a sound, without a peep.
An excerpt from a collection of short stories I intend to write, but never will.
Image Source(s):
IMG 1 : http://img.medicalxpress.com/newman/csz/news/800/2016/1-nationalstud.jpg