Saturday, November 14, 2009

....
He was a child when she died, and left him with a photograph. He was a boy when he took his knife and scratched out her eyes, and he was a man when he cried over what he had done.

Claude!

He was married and miserable, with a babe on the way when he remembered.

His father was a fisherman, and lord knows that when he did come home it wasn’t for long. He spent hours on end in the valleys, watching as the horses ran within the walls of their cages, and he wanted to touch them. She would call-

Claude!

-and he would run, tracking mud as he went, to her arms, where it smelled of honey and dew and dust. She smiled, petting his hair and if he never remembered what she said, he knew her voice. Silk and low, and beautiful.

He would skip rocks against the water of the pond that she showed him, where if you looked very hard you could almost see the mermaid who lived beneath the murky surface. He would run, barefooted, blond tresses fluttering against his neck, and he would smile with all of his darling, pearly baby teeth because he was innocent, and happy, and he was loved.

Claude!

She was ill, and it was only a matter of time. She was happier now, and no, he couldn’t see her, he might catch it too. He pressed the wrinkled photo to his chest and ran, and as he did, the horses joined. They were running side by side, with the harsh wooden fence between, and he screamed, and screamed, because she was his mother.

Claude!

Her voice was so different. Sweet and Sticky, but tender and so he didn’t mind it so much. Her swollen stomach always entered the room first, and he hugged her. Marigolds and Lemons, but it was home.

He was married when he remembered, but it wouldn’t be until he was a father that he understood.





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