Learning With You

”Wha- What? Why can’t I move? What’s happening? Where am I?” Then it hit me. I was inside your house. ”That’s right.” I thought ”Im dead.” I didn’t think that I’d end up here. I guess the great Heavens were a lie, after all. Hah, how funny, you painted your walls yellow. I always thought that was such an ugly color. You once asked me: ”Mother, could I paint the walls of my room yellow when daddy gets back home?” I laughed. ”Silly child, your father won’t get back home! He left me with you here.” Oh, how your teary eyes sparked joy in me back then. But you can’t blame me! I was also a child when I had you, wasn’t I? Oh, my poor child, I realized I was sick too late. Perhaps if I had taken a closer look inside my heart rather than inside my body all the time to find a cure for the things that made me do all those horrible things to you and your father, you would have had a much better life growing up. But you see, the thing is that I was jealous of your relationship with your father. I later learned that this was because I didn’t get to form a bond with my father like you did. When ı was a little girl, just like you were, My father would get home, even later than midnight, and argue with my mother until dawn. I don2t know why, but I guess he didn’t want anything to do with us after my mother found out he cheated on him numerous times. She couldn’t do anything. She begged and begged him to stay with us, but he left without any bits of shown hesitation. Oh, my dear child, I recall how heartbroken my poor mother was that she got ill and couldn’t look after us like she used to anymore. Me and my sister had to live with my great aunt for the rest of our lives, and after we left, I didn’t get to see my mother for the rest of my life.
Oh, deary. Oh wow. The previous evening, you put up a gold-framed mirror that we had in our old apartment. It also has the lacework I tried to make to gift you on your birthday when ı was trying to get better. And I realize that I’m not a picture, good heavens! I’m a painting! I recall thinking foolish of you for the ”artistic skills” you said you had as a kid because you mentioned you wanted to be a great painter once. Now I admit I was wrong for saying those things while looking at how you sculpted my old, wilted, sad face into a blooming young woman’s face. Now being able to look around through the mirror, you certainly have become a great painter, my dear.
That brings me to what I wanted to tell you when I was still alive, I am sorry. I am sorry that I wasn’t an acceptable or a good enough mother compared to the kindness you have in your heart. I am sorry, my dear, for my harsh words and my ignorant actions. I hope you get to live a sounder life after my passage.
Love, your Mother.