Breaking My Home

The day my mother lost her job I cradled her face so twisted and broken from the bottled tears of so many years. I did not recognize her. As she kept repeating the only thing she’d said for hours “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry...” I bit tongue—metallic—and choked back useless words as the rip and purge of fire tongues so easily spat only moments ago… crumbled with our spirits. Only once, had I ever seen her cry… but that day I knelt in front of my home. Not the house. Not the green-blade-ridden yard, or the heavy flowers of pink. Not the mud-smeared windows or the walls that echoed our lives. But my home: my mother. And I cried as I held the ghost—an unrecognizable echo of her— the warmth torn from us. So shockingly grievous it would seem she had never smiled. How strange a feeling to hold your own mother—the very symbol of protection. Cradle her as if SHE were the child. "Try to forget you're helpless" I'd tell myself as I rocked her And wondered how anyone could stomach breaking such a woman. How anyone could stomach breaking my home...