Maggie Winkler

 

When I say I was afraid of my mother, I mean that I woke up sweating in a spring
bed. The window open, the fan plugged in across the room but yet goose bumps
rubbing against damp sheets.

I couldn’t do it: roll out of bed and to my parent’s room, wake her up and face the
wrath of it. I knew the anger in her lowered voice, and the disappointment in her
gaze. Knew she had to be up in four hours. Knew she’d blame me.

So when I say I was afraid of my mother, I mean that I laid in bed for hours until she
came to wake me up for school and found me bright red, sweating, shaking and then
yelled at me for not waking her up sooner.

So when I say I was afraid of my mother, I mean how could I have told her? After all,
In some ways he was a piece of her as well.

With hands just like her father,
Her sister,
His mother.

It happened again.

When I say I was afraid of my mother, I mean it took me fifteen years
To be able to tell her, and I could’ve taken the yelling, her scolding me
For not telling her sooner but I couldn’t take the tears. Her apologies.

When I say I am afraid of my mother, I mean that now she blames herself,
And I’m afraid that I don’t.