I Thought it Safe
by Robin Michel
“I thought it safe to love children.” Mama wrapped her thin arms around her legs and tucked her sharp chin between her bony knees as she sat on the cold cement. She looked so small, as if I could scoop her up and slip her into my bathrobe pocket.
“Come inside.” It was dark. The stars glinted like shards of broken glass. Resisting my hand on her arm, Mama began rocking back and forth, a moan rumbling in her throat.
“Mama, please.” I wanted to cry, but I had to keep it together. Keep us safe. I was worried she would wake my little brothers, both asleep after the crush of strangers, their possessive arms and unwanted kisses, the cloying flowers, the casseroles and Jell-o salads forced into our hands. Mama’s keening became more insistent. I saw houselights across the street turn on. “Please—”
Mascara ran down Mama’s cheeks. I found myself staring at a tiny droplet of snot hanging from her left nostril. I felt myself slipping in and out of my body, and I watched the two of us as if in a movie. I couldn’t find my slippers before coming outside. My feet were cold. Like my little brother, his body deep beneath the freshly turned dirt now covered with snow.
Yes, I was slipping in and out of my body, watching a movie about a daughter taking care of her mother and wondering if I would miss something if I decided to go pee--
And then suddenly, I would be thrust back into myself. Feel my hand upon her shoulder. Hear the words coming out of my mouth, “Mama, please…” See her tears, mucus, and snot. Watch the neighbors’ lights flickering on up and down our narrow street, gutters filled with dirty snow. Taste the bile rising in my throat, afraid I might vomit out the words I was afraid to say: I thought it safe to love a mother…”
“Come inside.” It was dark. The stars glinted like shards of broken glass. Resisting my hand on her arm, Mama began rocking back and forth, a moan rumbling in her throat.
“Mama, please.” I wanted to cry, but I had to keep it together. Keep us safe. I was worried she would wake my little brothers, both asleep after the crush of strangers, their possessive arms and unwanted kisses, the cloying flowers, the casseroles and Jell-o salads forced into our hands. Mama’s keening became more insistent. I saw houselights across the street turn on. “Please—”
Mascara ran down Mama’s cheeks. I found myself staring at a tiny droplet of snot hanging from her left nostril. I felt myself slipping in and out of my body, and I watched the two of us as if in a movie. I couldn’t find my slippers before coming outside. My feet were cold. Like my little brother, his body deep beneath the freshly turned dirt now covered with snow.
Yes, I was slipping in and out of my body, watching a movie about a daughter taking care of her mother and wondering if I would miss something if I decided to go pee--
And then suddenly, I would be thrust back into myself. Feel my hand upon her shoulder. Hear the words coming out of my mouth, “Mama, please…” See her tears, mucus, and snot. Watch the neighbors’ lights flickering on up and down our narrow street, gutters filled with dirty snow. Taste the bile rising in my throat, afraid I might vomit out the words I was afraid to say: I thought it safe to love a mother…”
Robin Michel's writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Blue Mountain Review, Comstock Review, Lindenwood Review, Northampton Poetry Review, San Pedro River Review, and elsewhere. She lives in San Francisco and is the founder of Raven & Wren Press.