Taylor Lanson                               

Scars                                                    

Growing up without a mother was never easy. Over the years I had spent many nights crying and many mornings wishing for a release to the unfillable void inside me. Sometimes my distraught would be too violent and as a result, my father would walk into my bedroom to see if I was troubled, only to find me feigning rest. I never wanted him to know how much my mother’s passing had affected me. I never wanted him to look at me and feel worse; as it was, I could see the stains of tears on his visage all too frequently. I convinced myself that if I showed strength, I could help my father’s depression. Yet several years passed with no discernable decrease in pain. Losing my mother at such a young age had many unforeseen implications. People would often be extra cautious around me, dreading the possibility of causing me any more turmoil than I had already been through. Unfortunately, this only caused me to alienate myself even further from others. I could never tell if someone was being kind to me because they wanted to, or if they were being considerate only because they felt obligated to do so. All these things and more were very confusing for a young child. I tried not to think about such notions, but my wandering mind always had a habit of bringing up my concerns over other, more pleasant, ideas.

The apartment that my father and I lived in was old and worn. My mother was the housekeeper and after she passed, my father simply never had the energy to keep up with the care-taking. He had to work extra hours after my mother’s death; consequently, he never had much energy or time to do anything. I felt sorry for him, blaming myself for the lack of funds necessary to live a stable lifestyle. Such things I am reminded of constantly, even to this day. They are unescapable, for who can escape the cards of fate bestowed upon you?

Growing up, I had noticed that the walls of my home were scarred and beaten. A strange quality, no doubt, but not one that ever alarmed me. I had simply chalked-up the realization to disrepair. No other explanation was plausible. Yet, as the years of my youth raced behind me, I became keener to my surroundings. The furniture in my home scratched the floor where it stood in every instance. The curtains upon the living-space window where ripped in certain places. These things and more I had begun to notice more frequently until my curiosity was uncontainable.

I remember the day I confronted my father about it with uncanny clarity. I approached him slowly, just as I would for any conversation. This time however, I was nervous beyond measurement. I asked him why our home didn’t look like other homes with much difficulty. I had hoped that the vagueness of my question would give me the best chances of finding an answer that would cause my father excessive concern. Needless to say, my approach was not effective. My father looked at me puzzled for a while before noticing that I was looking at a bruised section of wallpaper directly behind him. It was then that he began to sob. The weeping started off soft and innocent, but it soon grew to be more than I could handle. I excused myself from the room promptly and apologized. My father never told me that he forgave me.

Later that very same month was the anniversary of my mother’s passing. As tradition, my father and I would walk the section of the city park that my mother had every morning to honor her. My father would take off of work this one day out of the year only to show extra reverence. He took the memorial very seriously and as a result, it was always a very melancholy experience. I had thought secretly to myself that my mother would have preferred us being happy on her passing’s anniversary rather than sulking in sorrow, but having not really known her – I could never really be sure of myself. Nevertheless, I abided by my father’s wishes and was always on my best behavior on the particular day. I didn’t do it for him so much as I did it for myself, though. The day always felt like a test to prove my maturity and my emotional progress.

After making the trek, we sat down on my mother’s favorite bench and shared a few words. I asked my father how my mother had died on that day. He only responded with one word: “complications.” I had figured that such a time was as appropriate to ask as ever; my father, however, seemed to disagree. I never got a straight answer out of him when it came to my mother, but it didn’t bother me as much as one might think. I was content with understanding what little I did about her. I knew that she was kind and that she was my mother and those facts alone were always enough to satiate my longings to understand her.

We sat for several more minutes before the wind picked up and swirled leaves around our faces. Through gaps that the leaves made, I saw a woman standing in front of the bench and I knew instinctively that she was my mother. After the wind settled, I looked over to my father and saw his mouth agape. I asked him if he could see the woman as well and was surprised to see him nod subtly while his eyes continued to look forward stoically. I looked back towards my mother, but by the time I had turned my head, she had already vanished. My father proceeded to hug me tightly, telling me that everything was going to be okay.

Several weeks passed and my father told me that he continued to see my mother from time to time. She was always smiling at him, he said – a symbol of her approval. I was joyful for my father, because it was during this time in his life that he was the happiest. After that day in the park, I never witnessed him crying ever again. He seemed rejuvenated, as if the weight of the world had been removed from his bleeding shoulders.

I just wished that mother would have smiled for me. Even to this day, she only greets me by pointing towards the scarred walls and screaming.