Mother's echo

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A modern take on the mythological character Echo: a boy talking to his mother after many years of silence.

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Mother's echo

He was looking at her through his thin glasses. The light coming from the window revealed her beautiful curly hair. Dry lips were of no use here so he offered her a bottle of wine, but she refused.

Their eyes were eerily similar like, some time ago, glances had been exchanged between them.

He touched her hand and the look which had mesmerized him years back...returned.

That robe, which went around her waist looked so beautiful, like in the day when it was given to her.

May it always be that summer of joy. Every morning smiles, twinkled at breakfast together, with voices calling him inside at evening. Those were the days, my friend...

She had not aged one bit, but he had gotten so old he was; maybe, he was older than her.

Out of the pocket, came a small handkerchief, covering his eyes, petals that brimmed with old, filled that sheet until it was wet as the sea.

Swimming past his memories, he gorged at the moments left behind, why would anyone desire to flee forward and not go backwards with the speed of time?

On the table, lay food, untouched by him, unwanted by her. It had been a long time since her last meal, yet her cheeks looked round, full of space and joy.

The pick-up started spinning, annoyed but how the sound was lacking.

“That night in Manhattan was the start of it”, it rang in his ears, organs that lacked purpose while she continued to see right through him.

The wind had blown so much through their pages, lifting them to the sky, that one could not see them anymore. Above the earth, above the clouds, could anyone read what they had written?

Her small finger was pointing in front. Maybe, that was her destination. When she had gotten on that boat, the captain welcomed her aboard. Was she ready for her voyage? Did she take all her things? She never looked back, how could she? The boat slowly drifted away into the distance. What sights filled her eyes, were never told, some things are better left unsaid.

When the music stopped, nobody spoke, just a cricket chirp diluted their unheard conversation. They knew each other so well that no words were needed. At some point, he dozed off hugging her. His dreams were hers. All he wanted was for her to be happy. The ceiling stood and watched this fairy-tale unwind. It had seen them through the good and the bad, but never said anything, it also felt his heart.

When he woke up, the day was passing. It was his. He was hers as he always had been, as he always will be. Slow breaths turned the clock even more backwards to an unknown moment. When thinking about it, he felt warm, just like her fingers when combing his hair. He had not been warm for so much time, until today.

“Its best if you do not exaggerate with drinking, your father ruined his life that way!”

“I am not like him, I will not be like him!”

“Always remember to take care of your child, do not let him grow up like you did!”

“I promise you, I will not let my kid end up badly!”

“I have high hopes for you!”

“I will not disappoint, do not doubt me!”

Why have I forgotten you? When was that point in time in which I lost contact with your heart? Was it when I stopped hearing, or when you stopped talking? In my mind, you were just a passing bird looking over a barbecue, who could of guessed you were the one who desired to save me but couldn’t.

When I had found you, the bees were gathering honey and I was gathering rum..,now, I barely have power to pick up the pieces. My son is somewhere and I have no clue where that somewhere is. I loved myself too much, didn’t I?

Were you always this beautiful, or did age take away your color, your fullness? I do not remember you, yet your words are running inside my head like a broken record. I have even forgotten your name. It’s been years since it passed my lips.

The painting of his mother stood motionless among the fading summer rays of light.

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