Saturday, April 12, 2014

A tell-tale heart

Our last spring still sounds like an unfinished overture. We planted a peach seed near our summer house but mother refused to go back and I never got to see it blossom. I've come to judge her by these last ten years of indifference but when I do I forget that once, before the transitions and the storms, she was good to me.

It was only afterwards that I found her diary, I wasn't supposed to but I'm glad that I did because it helped me understand. She wrote about escaping and finding peace after the snowfalls, about redemption and about T (my father). He named me but wouldn't tell me what it meant when I asked him, mother is the only one that knows and she keeps his secret like a promise beyond the apocalypse.

When I browse through the jackets in her closet now I'm reminded of the light summer dresses and the sunset on the balcony and if I listen closely I can still hear the sound of her infectious laughter echoing through the seasons.

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