She descends the spiral staircase, the flourished gown lapping at her ankles, mingling and twining with the banister as she walks to the bottom. Mother. I see her now, her eyes, her hair, the way she used to fasten her coat with one hand and grab her umbrella with another; it rained a lot when we were children.

Well, I say “we”.

I don’t remember my siblings, two sisters, apparently. Not that it’s really relevant now. Separated in my third year, I know not how old they were.

I don’t know what happened to mother, nor do I really like to guess, or know what I hope. Some hope that the absent parent is indeed dead, so that the issue can be put to bed, whereas others revel in the hope. Like I said, I don’t know. But then, does anyone really know? I’ve often thought that those who profess to hate someone enough to wish their death, in reality, love them more than anyone else. Those who live on hope, I have trouble with guessing, but I doubt the matter is so simplistic, and often I think they are far more aware of the true answer before anyone else.

People often ask if I loved my mother, and I’ve often thought how odd a question it was. 

(How embarrassing, I’m watching Embarrassing Bodies and I’m too distracted to continue with my fiction, I’ll be back)


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