Mom. That’s all I wanted. My mom. I wanted to hug her, to be in her arms and hear comforting words in her loving voice. I wanted to be with her and my sister in the peace of our own home and all that it contained: the smell of lavender and fabric softener in the air, the feeling of warmth on my skin. But I would never feel that again.
At 5 years old,I spoke her name more than anyone elses’ by far: Mama, Mommy, Mom. Most of the time I used it in the form of song to communicate with her. “Mama, just killed a man. Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger now he’s dead”, echoed through our house at least five times a day, usually in the form of her voice or mine as opposed to Freddie Mercury’s. She had a beautiful voice and I thought she could sing the b flat towards the end of the song better than anyone else.
I felt guilty after the last time I saw her because, “Mama, I didn’t mean to make you cry”. I really didn’t mean to, but she still did. Without her in my life, I truly understood feeling like “I don’t want to die. I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all.” I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to be in this life anymore.
These were all very extreme thoughts for someone so young, but I didn’t know what else to think. I wanted a normal life. I didn’t want all the pain and confusion that came along with this new life. I didn’t want to sleep under bridges and believe the lies my sister told me for her own reassurance, saying that we’d be okay.
I suppose she photographed the graffiti I made to my mother in the train station because she thought it was sweet, maybe a way of coping. But it was really my impossible means of communication. I’d hope Mama would see it and come find me. But she hasn’t. I’m still waiting.