I am sat drawn up in the corner of the sofa, knees to my chest, and chin on my knees, and chest beating falsely. I feel very much empty even though I seem not to be able to get rid of the feeling that I am feeling too much. My mother, that one very important god in my life, she guides me, and wills me, and I concede with grumbling to obey. She is my law and I know that in my strange perception of her being omniscient and simply all powerful, she loves me yet demands what she gives in return times ten. She wants to be adored, served, and never ever ignored. She demands my hymns and sacrifices so that her station on a high pedestal is unquestionable. But now as she sits near me, the scent of her shampoo fresh in the air and her eyes steady and almost comforting, she reaches to hold my ankle in her strong hand. Trying to heal the many wounds that plague me. She whispers, thinking that if she flatters me into good self esteem she can heal my depression. She pulls me into her arms, rocking me as if I am a child. Really mothers can play god to their children, deciding to love, leave, rule, kill…and after all these years of simply thinking that she was just a strange creature in our nuclear family circle, waving some scepter at us, I now understand her. I’ve played the same role of her, just my administration was very weak, my kingdom dark, and my subjects barely bone in their birthing. She rocks me, holding me, and in all her power she manages to at least calm the tempest inside and quiet the demon I am, murmuring soft words so I forget that I ever held that responsibility and brushes over my concerns that I should recall my accountability.
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Submission Name: Mothering
