The Bitterness of Water

Rising under the beautiful sun of Sunday morning, I expected the routine kiss from the mouth of the woman who conceived me. Instead, my world opened to the view of a stranger who knew me well. I felt so unwanted, as if my world were falling apart. Loudly, in my mind, like the sound of a pin dropping, a voice said ‘do not waver.’ I could feel my shell breaking. I glanced at the other side of the mirror; the spirit bounced back into the host of shadows. Nothing has been forgotten. My mother’s voice is a supper I could not digest, the sweetness in the tone of the night. Had you drunk from my well, you would have known the bitterness of water. Had you followed my eyes through their tears, you would have known the source of my emptiness. Watch how I feast as if she never existed. I was ten when my mother kissed my forehead like that, and I did not slip and think I had missed the road to my creator’s heart. My ancestors were forsaken. A knife stuck tight in my heart, and I gave it no chance to bleed. Death came with a bribe. Suppose I was left with something to keep. I embraced her smiling, pale face deep in my heart.