And I watch her, disgust pitting in my throat.
here, her desperation on display. On bent knees and red eyes. There is nothing subtle about this pain. She can not hide it.
‘Daddy, I know you can help me. you are my last bus top’ she says.
I can not hide my disgust. my throat bubbles,my ears hurt.In this moment I realise, pain can make you worship anything. Here, sprawled at the preachers feet, my mother is an example.
She continues her ritual, flinging herself on him as if her sorrows will leave her body with this gesture. He holds her, pats her back. Motions for one of his minions to bring her a chair. Mother takes this as bait, a beckoning…She spills the contents of her heart all in one breathe….
‘My son is running mad, my husband has brought his mistress into the house, she has a child, my home is on fire…what will they say, what will people think?’
I have not moved from where I have been standing since we got here. Rage comes, it shakes me,I hold the church doors for support. Sadness comes next, it breaks me, brings me to my knees. I look at my mother, pouring her heart to the preacher man as he pats her pain away. She shudders and shakes, crying still. The preachers minions are oblivious to my presence. They are transfixed on my mother. listening intently with pity plastered on their faces. Who is this woman? I do not recognise her.
I wipe, bitterly…
I dry my tears
I will never be her.