Something thatâs nothing profound.
I am standing on an opposite wall towards the door to my motherâs room, thinking hard enough I can feel her through the wall, the warmth of the center of her palms, the smell of jasmine and wood, she is just beyond it, I see the light and shadows move under the door, Iâm sure sheâs there.
There is no movement on my side of the wall, I am still and soundless, the shadow I cast drowned out by a ticking clock, a cough, the moving of fabric. Nobody was to think of be there, nobody was to think of me.
Tears fall as they often do, paralyzed and unmoving body parts scream at me, open the door, move away from the door, go towards your own space, anything but stand here and be completely consumed. MOVE MOVE MOVE.
My body may be screaming, but my brains hum of white noise and distance is far louder and constant. I know she cannot feel me behind her door, she cannot feel the coldness of tears on my face, my knees locked in pain.
Vomiting up thoughts and swallowing them back again, even if you did go and beg for comfort, pry it out of her hands. It would burn you, she has to feel you in return for you to feel her skin, it wouldnât do what you want, what you feel you need right now. Nothing that belongs to you would.
