Little Feet
an excerpt

I climbed up in the chair and stared at the deep lines in her face that just grew deeper from then on. “Morning, Momma,” I said.
“Morning, Baby,” her voice echoed from what ever mountain she was on in that mind of hers down to me. It was the last time she called me that – Baby. I don’t even think she meant to then. Afterward it was just Em or Emily Matthews Davidson in that stern, if you don’t do what I’m telling you, I’m going to switch you till you are black and blue, voice.
I waited but she didn’t say anything more. She just sat there. I knew if I said the wrong thing, I’d be scolded.
“Where’s Daddy?” I asked. I thought about it before saying it, and it had seemed a safe question. I sat kicking the metal post of the table with my little tennis shoes in a staccato like manner as I bit into a thick piece of cooled bacon waiting for an answer.
“You’re father’s dead.” Her eyes never moved from that far off on the yellowed wall. She didn’t even look at me when she said it. Her hands moved to the stained coffee cup in front of her and she took a long slow sip of it. She hadn’t said it with sympathy or sadness. She just said it, like you say, “I like your dress,” or, “How much did that cost?” I never forgave her for that moment, for not breaking it to me gently, or at least giving me the faux sympathy a child should be given when a mother tells her child that her father is dead.
My mind understands now, and I guess that means that I understand, if the two are to be the same. It took me becoming an adult to figure out that she was consumed by her own grief, lost in that well of depression clawing upon the mildewed mossy bricks with broken, bloodied nails just to stay afloat and breathe. Yes, I understand, but I just don’t care.
Tears fell to my lap before I knew I was crying. I lost my breath and pushed my lungs out trying to suck in air only to realize that the air was tainted with the sadness and truth of my father’s death, and I refused to breathe, refused to believe that what she had said was true. Oh, how I hated her then. I hoped for a moment that I was still curled up next to my bedroom door asleep, and any minute she would come into the room and tell me to wake.
Still her eyes did not meet mine but moved over me on the way to the sink, like I was some obstacle to overcome. Her feet shuffled under the table, and she used her hands to heave herself up. “Eat your breakfast,” she said.