Mourning Again

Please welcome Willow Rose to the blog. Willow writes short fiction and poetry and will be contributing here regularly. Willow say about her writing, “I believed in the power of well-chosen words to distill the world, and to clarify it. My strongest belief and favorite subject to write about is the resilience of the human spirit and our universal need for connection.

Mourning Again
After working the long cocktail shift the night before, even yesterday's toast crumbs on the floor hurt my bare feet.  The night had been interminable, and the reek of tobacco and liquor still clung to my hair and skin like static electricity.  Morning always came too soon after nights like those, and I said a silent prayer to the god of single mothers that my daughter would wake up in a good mood.

While the water for the oatmeal boiled, I made my way back to her room where she lay curled in sleep and innocence.  Forcing a note of cheerfulness into my voice, I greeted her, "Good morning, sweetheart, time to get up," and kissed her sleepy eyelids open.

"Mommy, I don't feel good," she told me, and I groaned in dismay.  She just couldn't be sick!  I had to work again today and couldn't afford to miss any hours.

"Get up, you'll feel better later," I told her over my shoulder as I raced into the kitchen too late to keep the oatmeal from boiling over on the stove.  After I called her several times for breakfast, she appeared - half-dressed and scowling; the warning signs of a morning that could only get worse.

As she sat at the table and picked at breakfast with maddening deliberation, I resisted the urge to scream as the clock ticked the minutes away.  "Come on, hurry or you'll be late," I urged her, feeling the familiar anxiety stomping its football cleats through my stomach.

As she brushed her teeth, I brushed her hair, feeling the knots underneath I just didn't have time to unravel.  When I pulled too hard, she swung around screaming "I hate you, you're always making me hurry," and ran out the door sobbing uncontrollably.  When I caught her, I held her tightly, crying "I love you," over and over, desperately trying to assuage the pain that flowed like a current between us.

Minutes later, I stood at the window watching her go, a lump of guilt, love, and futility sticking in my throat like the cold oatmeal we never had time to eat.