Leaving you behind

Before‌ ‌the‌ ‌death‌ ‌of‌ ‌my ‌father,‌ ‌my ‌family‌ ‌had‌ ‌been‌ ‌close,‌ ‌happy‌ ‌even.‌ ‌After‌ ‌he‌ ‌died‌ ‌it‌ ‌seemed‌ ‌as‌ ‌if‌ ‌my mother‌ ‌had‌ ‌died‌ ‌with‌ ‌him.‌ ‌She‌ ‌was‌ always home but never present even on her good days ‌ ‌there‌ ‌was‌ ‌little‌ ‌to‌ ‌no‌ ‌chance‌ ‌she‌ ‌could‌ ‌get‌ ‌a‌ ‌word‌ ‌out‌ ‌of‌ ‌her.‌ ‌I ‌know‌ ‌I can’t ‌blame‌ ‌my ‌mother for feeling the way she did. I ‌can‌ however‌ ‌hope‌ ‌that‌ ‌she‌ ‌would‌ ‌listen‌ ‌to‌ ‌her‌ ‌and‌ ‌try‌ ‌to‌ ‌get‌ ‌some‌ ‌help‌ ‌and‌ ‌talk‌ ‌to‌ ‌someone.‌ ‌

I realized soon after his death that it’s easy to fall into the hole we call sorrow. I could shed tears because he’s no longer here. I could close my eyes and pray that when I open them he´ll be here. I could think about him only because he’s gone. Or I could smile because he lived, I could open my eyes and see all the good he left in the world, I could cherish his memory and let it live on.

I sit at the edge of my bed and wait patiently for my mind to fully wake up. After a few minutes of staring and the empty wall, I walk to the kitchen, as I walk out of the room, I stop to look in my mom’s room and see her bed empty. Confused, I call her name and check the rooms in the apartment. Im walking through the hallway and suddenly hear mumbling from the bathroom. I twist the knob, it’s locked. I tap my knuckle lightly on the door.

¨Mom are you in there,¨ I say loud enough so she can hear me. There’s no answer. I tap on the door again a little louder. The voice behind the door grows louder, yet the words are still muffled by the barrier.

“Mom,” I call again, still no answer.

I quickly walk into the kitchen and fling open the silverware drawer and remove a butter knife. Back at the bathroom door, I stick the thin end of the knife into the slot on the knob and twist. I hear a quiet click, indicating the door is now unlocked. I pause and take a breath before slowly opening the door.

I scan the room and find my mother sitting in the corner, her back facing me. a pair of kitchen scissors and a mess of black hair covering the tile, I look up at her hair and notice the seemingly random spots of short hair covering her head.

I walk up to her slowly but loud enough for her to hear in an attempt to not alarm her. She doesn’t turn but continues talking to herself, her voice has returned to a whisper, I hear a repetitive no.

Im about a foot away from her, about to tap her shoulder, and suddenly the whispering stops, her head turns gradually. All the color is missing from her face, with the exception of the dark bags under her eyes. Her eyes are red, informing me that she had another sleepless night.